


Farther off from Heaven

by westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist



Category: The West Wing
Genre: Drama, Episode: s03e15 Dead Irish Writers, F/M, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-08-20
Updated: 2002-08-20
Packaged: 2019-05-30 09:37:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 33,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15094049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist/pseuds/westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist
Summary: This is the follow-up toour story '"A Frightened Peace"', and what we thinkreallywent on behind the scenes immediately following the events depicted inDead Irish Writers





	1. Farther off from Heaven

**Author's Note:**

> A copy of this work was once archived at National Library, a part of the [ West Wing Fanfiction Central](https://fanlore.org/wiki/West_Wing_Fanfiction_Central), a West Wing fanfiction archive. More information about the Open Doors approved archive move can be found in the [announcement post](http://archiveofourown.org/admin_posts/8325).

**Farther off from Heaven**

**by:** Anne Callanan and Kathleen E. Lehew 

**Disclaimer:** Aaron Sorkin owns everything

**Characters/Pairing:** Jed and Abbey of course, but take notes. _Everyone_ gets his or her moment in the limelight here.  Seriously.  We'd have even resurrected Mrs. Landingham if we'd dared.

**Category:** Category: Drama, humor - we hope! -, a tiny bit of action, several emotional upheavals - for everyone - and a dash of intrigue. Again, nobody told us to stop, so we didn’t  <G>.

**Rating:** Just to be safe, TEEN. Some language - after all we _are_ dealing with Jed here - and a few minor adult issues.

**Spoilers:** ‘Dead Irish Writers’ and our story "A Frightened Peace". Alas, it is sort of necessary you be a little familiar with both. 

**Author's Note:** As noted above, this is the sequel to our story "A Frightened Peace". While that tale was a torturous exercise in mechanical mayhem, this one is an equally tortured exercise in marital mayhem. That, and while we loved ‘Dead Irish Writers’, the resolution of nearly one whole season’s worth of emotional battles left us just a little... disappointed. So, we tried our hand at a bit of a follow-up, adding a few things of our own along the way just to make life a little more interesting for our favorite couple.

We hope you enjoy it.

To any lawyer  
reading this, we do not own these characters in any way, shape or form.  
Somebody else does. In lieu of some seriously expensive therapy, we’re just  
having fun.

Major thanks to Sheila for doing an amazing job of beta'ing this.  Sorry for keeping you from your own writing, Sheila.  We can't wait for you to get back to it either.  Any mistakes remaining are ones Sheila simply couldn't persuade us out of.  We're stubborn that way.  We even had the cheek to use phrases like _'stylistic choice_ '. <G>

**Summary:** This is the follow-up to our story "A Frightened Peace", and what we think _really_ went on behind the scenes immediately following the events depicted in ‘ _Dead Irish Writers_ ’.

This story is dedicated to Kelly, and the memory of her beloved Grandfather. There is more than a hope for Heaven, and perhaps a few smiles along the way.

> _I remember, I remember,_  
>  The fir trees dark and high;  
>  I used to think their slender tops  
>  Were close against the sky:  
>  It was childish ignorance,  
>  But now ‘tis little joy  
>  To know I’m farther off from heaven  
>  Than when I was a boy.  
>     
>              --Thomas Hood: _1798 - 1845_

"A moment of your time, Admiral."

It wasn’t phrased as a question, but rather a cold demand.

Admiral Percy Fitzwallace, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, wasn’t used to being accosted in hallways, let alone being cornered in the hallway right outside the Situation Room. It simply wasn’t done and he wasn’t in the mood. Most people wouldn’t even consider it an option. A disapproving frown at the ready, he turned abruptly on his heel -only to have his response and his mood sent completely out the window.

The woman who had waylaid him, Nancy McNally, the National Security Advisor, did not look happy. Never what you’d call an overly cheerful person, her face was a study in both anger and a grim resolution he’d seen only a few times before. Simply saying she was _unhappy_ didn’t begin to cover it.

And Fitzwallace already had a pretty good idea as to why. The manila folder clutched in her hand, clearly stamped _‘National Transportation and Safety Board’_ , was all the confirmation he needed that the rest of his day was shot to hell.

"Damn", he growled. Cautiously glancing up and down the corridor, he took her arm and led her into the SIT Room. Glaring at the two officers on watch, he ordered them curtly, "Outside! No interruptions unless it’s the President himself!"

The men scrambled hastily to obey.

Watching the door close behind them, Fitzwallace turned to Nancy and asked, "They’ve confirmed the investigator’s suspicions?"

Nancy nodded, her eyes hard and glittering in the subdued light of the active wall monitors. "Yes."

"When?"

"I received the preliminary report an hour ago. The final is still pending, but even without all the nasty details, it’s enough. What happened to Marine One was not an accident."

Fitzwallace straightened his shoulders, took a deep breath and asked softly, dangerously, "Explosives?"

"Trace amounts of plastic, peppering the main rotor housing. _Very_ trace amounts. The initial findings indicate just enough was used to weaken the securing bolt. Whoever set it knew what they were doing. The NTSB investigators wouldn’t have found it unless..."

"...unless one pushy, obnoxious and disliked junior kept shoving it in their faces," the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs finished with a barely controlled sneer. "Why is it nobody else wanted to even look?"

"When you’re this high on the ladder of _the powers that be_ , you _don’t_ want to be the bearer of bad tidings, not unless you’re absolutely sure." 

"Don’t go political on me, Nancy. That’s not your job. It’s not _my_ job. This..." he snatched the folder with its devastating contents out of her hand and slapped it down onto the table, "...is _our_ job! And we failed."

Rolling her eyes, Nancy replied with pure acidic sarcasm, "Christ, Fitz! Don’t you think I know that? I’m not playing games here. I can only work with what I’ve been told. It’s not my fault certain people are afraid to stand up and be counted. However much you may detest it, this _is_ politics. At this level it’s nothing but!" 

Fitzwallace winced at the barbed point, not really needing to be reminded. "Don’t get snippy with me, Nancy. I didn’t start this."

"Neither did I, Fitz."

"God damn it!" Fitzwallace swore, wandering to his spot at one end of the long table occupying the center of the room. Leaning his hands against the polished wood, he stared bleakly down its length to the empty seat at the head. "Does the President know?"

"He will as soon as I can corner Leo."

"Good luck," Fitzwallace snorted derisively. "It’s a birthday party, Nancy. His _wife’s_ birthday party. "

"This can’t wait."

"I’m not saying it should," Fitzwallace sighed, pulling off his glasses and rubbing his burning eyes. "He’s going to want to know why he wasn’t told sooner. Even a hint would have been enough. The NTSB knew..."

"Suspected," Nancy corrected him irritably.

"...three weeks ago," Fitzwallace finished with a warning glare. While his mood had taken a rapid nose-dive into the depths of expedient accountability, or whatever the pencil pushers were calling it these days, he could still summon up more than a little righteous indignation. "We should have been told then. This is the President’s _life_ we’re talking about here."

"Suspicions without any grounds aren’t enough, Fitz."

"So they buried it?"

Nancy sighed. "Not exactly..." 

"You use the words _‘_ _plausible deniability’_ in his presence and he’ll bite your head off."

Nancy couldn’t help but laugh shortly as she pulled out a chair and sat down. She’d watched the President take his shots at all the Joint Chiefs' heads at one time or another, as well as her own. The man’s verbal aim was remarkable. "And he’d have every right to."

"I rather like my head where it is."

"We had every chance to stop this, Fitz. But we didn’t. We’re just as guilty..."

"Guilty?" Fitzwallace echoed incredulously, chopping off her statement with a curt hand gesture. "Two days, Nancy. I was told about the suspicion two days ago! How the hell does the NTSB justify that?"

"They were frightened." She picked up the file, waving it like a banner. "You know as well as I do what this means. Access alone indicates this was an inside job."

"No excuses. The President should have been told."

"He wasn’t."

"No kidding," Fitzwallace drawled with exquisite irony. " _We_ should have been told the minute any suspicion reared its ugly head. Not now, after the fact and too late to do anything about it. The NTSB dropped the ball on this one."

"Dropped it?" Nancy’s brows rose in pure disbelief at the naiveté of that statement. "It was thrown so far into the dirt we may _never_ find it or the idiots who threw it in the first place. You want heads over this? Stand in line."

"Plausible deniability my ass," Fitzwallace muttered. 

"May I quote you?"

"It’s a free country."

"And God bless it," Nancy said in a soft, fervent whisper. Taking a calming breath, she looked up at Fitzwallace and repeated what had begun this conversation. "A moment of your time was all I needed, Admiral. I’ve picked up the ball."

"Your and the NTSB’s timing sucks, Nancy."Fitzwallace sighed heavily and scratched the back of his head. "This is going to go over like a lead balloon."

"A flying metaphor? From a navy man?" Nancy smiled tiredly, although little of the implied humor reached her eyes. "I’d have thought _sunk_ would be your exit of choice."

"I work with what I’ve got. I’m already sunk. First India, then China, now this. I’m running out of safe harbors."

"Whining does not become you, Percival," Nancy teased.

Ignoring her with as much dignity as he could muster, Fitzwallace asked, "How much of this has got around?"

"That’s about the _only_ good news we’ve got. It hasn’t, not yet. The NTSB played this one real close. They’re running scared. We have time."

"It won’t last." Fitzwallace said with cold certainty, rubbing his eyes again. "This is the White House, Nancy. No matter how deep, or how careful, someone will dig it up."

"Maybe not. We’re due for a bit of luck."

"I’m not gonna count on it. Keep it locked down, as long as you can. We need the breathing space."

Nancy didn’t have to ask why. Eyes narrowing, she picked up the file and stood up. "So it begins."

"Till we end it."

~ooOoo~

_‘I am not drunk_.’ 

Abigail Bartlet was quite firm on that point. A touch inebriated perhaps and if asked, she might even admit to being slightly tipsy, but she was definitely doing better than CJ Cregg. She was holding one hand delicately to her head while trying to argue with Toby Ziegler. In fact, the Communications Director himself seemed to be in an uncharacteristically expansive mood, and was slightly flushed.

He wasn't the only one.  Admittedly, a rosy hue was definitely more becoming to Donna's pale complexion.  Abbey smiled slightly as she watched the young woman engage in an animated conversation with the clearly amused Carol at the far end of the buffet table.

Donna had proved absolutely correct in her assessment of her own lack of verbal control when under the influence of alcohol. But Abbey was grateful to her. Somehow, with that one unguarded statement, Donna had seemed to sum up the basis of the dilemma that had been obsessing her in recent weeks.  Abbey had been angry at having been used as a political pawn in the wake of the MS revelation, at having her abilities as a doctor questioned and held up to scrutiny and judgment.  

However, the simple fact remained that she _had_ prescribed for her husband in contravention of just about every medical regulation and basic common sense. The fact that it had been a very personal, emotional decision in no way excused that. She wasn't ashamed of what she had done, felt no dishonor at doing her best to help her husband handle a very difficult time in his life as he wished. And for the first time in weeks, she felt that she had managed to seize back a measure of control over her future. The decision was hers now, not an imposed judgment.   

So why did she still feel angry?

Instinctively, she sought out the main focus of that particular emotion in recent times.  The thought depressed her somewhat. Oh, he was no stranger to her wrath. Somehow, not even thirty-four years of marriage had taught him to fully understand her trigger points, and he usually managed to trip them with faithful regularity.  

But this was different, and so very wrong. Normally their fights burned high and fierce, and then out, quickly and without rancor. This lingering, sullen coldness was alien to both their natures. Particularly to his. Abbey could acknowledge freely that while his explosions were legendary and impressive, it was _her_ wrath that tended to leave people scurrying for cover. Jed might have the fire, but it tended to burn out almost as quickly as it flared. She knew that she was seen as the one capable of nursing a grudge to quiet effect. She was not malicious, but she never took anything lying down, as her husband's staff had quickly realized, and she _never_ forgot.  

Unlike Jed it seemed. Things had been better between them recently, especially since the Marine One accident, but as the medical board hearing approached she found herself withdrawing once again, becoming tense and snappish - just as he had during the congressional hearings, she suddenly realized.  Damn it, why could they never seem to be on the same page recently? They _still_ hadn't talked, not properly.  Both had been cherishing the fragile peace too much to be willing to jeopardize it, and then the coldness had started to set in again.  

The truth was, she wanted something to rail against, and Jed was going out of his way to avoid offering her a target.  Frustrating didn't even begin to describe it.

Abbey sighed heavily as she watched her husband drift down the length of the buffet table, dispiritedly poking at the dishes on offer. Chances were good that the empty plate he dangled from one hand would remain unfilled. The White House catering staff were well aware of what the First Lady considered to be healthy fare, and had the tact to ensure that the menu for her own birthday party reflected those views. They were even more aware of her views on what constituted a suitable diet for the President.

Jed was extremely unlikely to find himself offered anything that might meet with his ideas of good food rather than his wife’s. And something about the dejected lines of his back suggested that he was feeling the need for such cholesterol-laden comfort quite strongly right now.

Watching the bent head and slumped shoulders, Abbey felt an upsurge of the affection he always managed to inspire warring with and momentarily beating down the anger. _‘I love you very much’_.  She had never doubted it, but the sheer sincerity of his words, and the expression he had worn, had almost cracked her carefully constructed façade. It was the quality she cherished most in her husband, his preparedness to drop all barriers and openly express his devotion to those he cared for.  He was a very loving man; also a remarkably stubborn one and, for such a formidable intellect, amazingly dense at times.

Apparently realizing that he was going to find no palliative here, Bartlet laid down his plate and swung abruptly away from the table.  Somewhat too abruptly it would seem. It was a very subtle reaction, but his alert wife caught the suppressed grimace and the quick rub to his right thigh.  

Abbey winced in sympathy. It had been nearly a month, and the leg was practically mended.  There wasn’t even a limp to show for the ordeal, and she doubted the staffers had noticed any appreciable reduction in the speed of the President’s progress. But healing muscles still protested at times, and the newly restored skin often pulled and itched.  

The leg scar itself was a beauty, of course. Fortunately, his hair hid the smaller one high on his temple, although he had developed a habit of rubbing at that spot when deep in thought or troubled. But the other remained a reddened, angry blemish of puckered flesh on the whiteness of his upper leg. Fortunately, for the sake of Jed’s self-consciousness and everyone else’s peace of mind, Abbey and the doctors were the only ones who had seen that so far.

No, that wasn’t quite true. Abbey remembered Leo coming in to talk to Jed as he hurriedly changed clothes after the India trip. It was a familiar scene, and one none of them thought anything of until Leo suddenly trailed off in mid sentence, transfixed by his first sight of the repaired wound. He had recovered quickly of course, but Abbey had been puzzled to note what seemed to be an air almost of guilt about him, and regret.  

Following her thoughts, her eyes left her husband, who now seemed to have cornered Donna at one end of the buffet table, and tracked around the crowded reception room until they alighted on the Chief of Staff, who was quietly conferring with the President’s Security Chief in a corner.  

Abbey was unable to suppress a slight grin at the sight. One of the more remarkable by-products of the crash was the way McGarry and Ron Butterfield seemed to have bonded together in a silent conspiracy over their Chief Executive. The President had been heard to complain bitterly on several occasions since that he was in danger of being mother-henned to death by his two protectors and his wife. Given the shock that he had caused them all, so far he hadn’t received a very sympathetic hearing. The general _unspoken_ consensus among the staff seemed to be that the more people the President had looking out for his welfare, the better.  

The temporary lightening of Abbey’s mood was once again soured by the sight of the NSA, Nancy McNally, bearing down on Leo, a business like folder in one hand. To say nothing of the woman’s grim expression, very much at odds with the party atmosphere surrounding her. The First Lady sighed heavily. No doubt yet another security crisis would shortly result in McGarry coming to drag the President away from the party, and his wife. She was slightly nonplussed instead to see the two vanish into an adjoining room, with Butterfield in tow. What the NSA, the White House Chief of Staff, and the President’s head of security could possibly have to discuss in common was beyond her.

Well, maybe _what_ , but not _who_.  Fuelled by a new, indefinable unease, she glanced back at her husband, who was still talking to an increasingly agitated looking Donna Moss.  Abbey could only hope he wasn’t subjecting the poor girl to one of his interminable lectures. 

Jed had been a good teacher before he took to politics, with a real love of knowledge for its own sake and of imparting information. The trouble was he usually brought enough enthusiasm to such conversations for himself _and_ his companion, and was not above impishly using his rank to command their often-wavering attention.

Still, Abbey had a suspicion that he might for once have found a match in Donna, if Josh Lyman’s tales were to be believed. Mind you, Jed seemed to be winning this round, if the increasing consternation on Donna’s features was to be believed. Abbey might have been amused if it were not for the air of despondency her husband still subtly projected, and the way he continued to unconsciously stroke his hand down along the side of his leg.

_Twenty-seven stitches._   She was truly grateful that the damage had been no worse.  In the context, it was practically insignificant. But every time she saw Jed absently attempt to smooth away an ache or irritation the sour taste of remembered panic rose in her throat.  For so long she had fought against the possibility of losing him piece by piece. The prospect of his being torn from her suddenly had had an almost physical impact. The shock had cooled her anger for a while.

But only for a while.  

Why did she feel so dissatisfied now? His reaction to her news left her in no doubt that he fully understood its implications, what his actions _\- their_ _actions -_ had cost her. The guilt had surged into those expressive eyes even as the rest of his features had frozen in shock.  She had been deeply affected by his quiet declaration, so why did she feel as if his response had somehow lacked something?

_What more did she want from him?_ What more could he give?

~ooOoo~

"Oh, God."

Guiltily closing the cell phone she’d been using, she desperately searched through the milling crowd for an escape route. Maybe she should have called a cab instead of indulging in a ridiculous craving. There were too many people and the buffet table stood in the way of the one escape route open to her. She wasn’t about to jump it and all the other exits were blocked. She was cornered.

"Oh, God."

Generally, Donnatella Moss wasn’t one to beg divine intervention, let alone twice in as many seconds. There was, however, always a first time and of course a selected place for everything. Why not at the First Lady’s birthday party? Given how this entire evening had begun by crashing down around her - she was still trying to figure out how to blame it all on Josh - and then appeared to forgive whatever transgression she’d inadvertently committed - again, still trying to find a way to blame Josh - she wasn’t at all surprised to see another disaster of truly epic proportions bearing down on her.

That the disaster in question was her boss’s boss, the President of the United States and the man she had personally voted for, did little to relieve her anxious thoughts. Especially the _voted_ _for_ part. Against all odds, Josiah Bartlet had won the election.

Somehow, Donna was sure it would all turn out to be her fault and he’d blame her for sticking him with this thankless job. One vote was enough. That she probably hadn’t been a citizen at the time - therefore making her vote moot - had very little bearing on her convoluted reasoning. It was turning out to be that kind of evening.

Watching him approach through the crowd, exchanging smiles and a few niceties with guests, Donna decided she didn’t like the look in his eye. It was the one Josh, in all seriousness, had warned her about. It was the one that made Toby cringe and CJ scream the paint off walls. And poor Sam? She’d thought Cathy had only been kidding when she’d jokingly claimed to have found the Deputy Communications Director hiding under his desk one day.

There was no getting away from it. The man was up to something and whatever it was involved her.

Closing her eyes and holding her breath, she concentrated and made a wish. A BIG wish. The biggest she ever had. Opening them, she nearly cursed aloud. Still here. Still cornered.

Teleporting wasn’t working. Go figure.

When the President drew to a halt in front of her, Donna tried very hard not to faint. She was just a secretary, an executive assistant. Why would the leader of the free world be looking at her like that? She’d seen him talking to the First Lady earlier. Considering what the girls had tossed around and back upstairs, she had a pretty good idea what, if not how. 

Surely Mrs. Bartlet hadn’t mentioned what she’d said, had she? She’d had too much to drink, they all had. CJ, Amy, Mrs. Bartlet. They’d managed to send several bottles of pretty good zinfandel to a worthy end.

"Oh, God." It had become a mantra.

"Let’s not get carried away, Donna."

Blinking slowly and hoping she didn’t look as stupid as she felt, Donna stammered, "Sir?" There was nothing for it. Not only was she cornered and he was giving her the _look_ , but he was in of those moods, too.

She was dead. She wondered briefly if Sam would be willing to make room for her under his desk. Gathering what was left of her courage and nerve, she began to apologize in a heedless rush, "Mr. President, I am so sorry. I wasn’t thinking, which is...weird because Josh’ll tell you that’s something I do far too much of and really... between finding out I was Canadian and too much wine... and not knowing _which_ Mrs. Bartlet I was talking to... "

"Which Mrs. Bartlet you were talking to?" The President repeated carefully, fairly certain he was about to step into something deep. "How many are there? And please, don’t tell me they all belong to me."

"They do."

"Really?" It was the only response he could think of.

"Yes, sir." Donna couldn’t tell if the hunted look that came into his eyes was at the prospect of multiple Abigail Bartlets or the patented Moss conversation style.

"Which one were you talking to?" he asked, still trying to find the bottom of this conversation. It had to be there somewhere...

"Mostly the First Lady... I think."

"But you’re not sure?"

"Nope," Donna sighed. "I think it was the wine."

"Or the topic?" At the guilty flush that spread across her face, a sad smile pulled at one corner of Bartlet’s mouth. Letting her off the hook, he said, "She didn’t say anything, Donna. I can guess though."

"Oh." Donna wasn’t too sure his confession helped, because if he wasn’t here about the girls getting bent upstairs, then it was something else. The need to escape was growing. "Then what... "

"I can read lips."

"Really?" It was all she could come up with.

"No, not really." Shoving his hands in his pockets, Bartlet glanced casually around the room, making sure nobody was listening. "Just one word, when you were on the phone."

He knew. Truly cornered now, Donna tried to bluff it out. "Sir?"

"Pizza."

"No."

"Yes."

Donna shook her head firmly, a sudden sense of empowerment giving wings to her courage. "You can’t." 

One presidential brow rose at an elegantly accusing angle.

"Okay, let me rephrase that." She took a deep breath, her moment of empowerment fading as quickly as it had arisen. Time to regroup. "I can’t. The First Lady... "

"Which one?"

"The mean one, sir." Donna’s eyes narrowed and she dared to give the President a _look_ of her own. It usually sent Josh scurrying for cover. Considering who this man had spent the last thirty-four years living with, she wasn’t at all surprised it didn’t faze him. "The one who scares Secret Service agents silly. The one who will do horrible, nasty things to me if I so much as let you in the same room with mozzarella cheese."

"The mean one?" For some reason he couldn’t quite fathom, Bartlet found Donna’s sincere yet petrified observations amusing. He smiled, thinking about it. Nice to know he wasn’t the only one on Abbey’s hit list.

Donna wasn’t amused at all. "Yes, sir. Very mean."

"She’ll never know."

"The Secret Service... "

"Are scared silly of her."

"They’ll tell."

"Donna... "

Lips tightening into a stubborn line, Donna crossed her arms. Possession _was_ nine-tenths the law. Working for a lawyer - even if he wasn’t a real one - had its advantages. "It’s my pizza."

"My house," Bartlet replied evenly, effectively ending the standoff.

There was no getting past that one. Donna sighed dejectedly."You win."

"I usually do." At Donna’s highly skeptical look, he shrugged and added sadly, "Most of the time."

It was probably the tail end of the wine consumed earlier, but Donna’s short laugh came out more like a snort of unenthusiastic but still respectful disbelief. At least she hoped it did. The respectful part anyway. The disbelief she couldn’t help, not with Josh to keep her in the loop. Winning was all a matter of perspective.

Looking up a bit fearfully, she relaxed when she saw the slight, mischievous smile on his face. No malice, almost apologetic and rocking back casually on his heels, he was waiting patiently. And something else, a hint of sadness, and a melancholy she couldn’t quite place. For the first time, Donna realized there was a whole other level to what was going on here. 

"Where?" he asked.

Donna struggled to find an answer to that one. Where indeed? It was one thing to sneak a pizza into the White House, quite another to sneak it _and_ the President off to a quiet secluded corner - and Donna knew there weren’t many in this building - where the scavengers couldn’t find them. Glancing over his shoulder, she spotted one of the constant shadows that followed him wherever he went.

All other questions aside, the Secret Service was not going to make this easy. Unconsciously, her brows furrowed and she tried to figure it out. A certain alcohol-induced haze wasn’t helping her problem solving abilities.

Not having to follow her gaze and understanding the skeptical look, Bartlet easily reasoned out what was troubling her. For the most part, he did his best to ignore them. He’d long ago become used to the lack of privacy, of personal space. He thought he’d come to terms with it.

Apparently he hadn’t, and right now he wasn’t in the mood to try. Frowning, he didn’t bother to spare his shadows a glance. "I’ll take care of them."

Donna saw his frown set into an expression of pained tolerance, almost depression. Given his usual good-natured spirits, and an occasion that should have seen him - at the very least - relaxed and untroubled, she took it as a bad sign. 

She didn’t like it at all.

It made the final decision all that much easier. "Ainsley Hayes’ office."

Bartlet’s eyes widened a bit, and then he nodded. "The steam trunk... "

" ...distribution venue," Donna finished, rather proud she’d thought of it. It wasn’t the first time she’d used Ainsley’s office as a refuge. Usually to hide from Josh, but in this case it would serve as well. "It’s... hidden."

For the first time a hint of genuine humor flashed in the President’s eyes. "Can’t have a Republican out where she can corrupt decent Democrats."

Donna smiled tentatively in return. "Ainsley seems to think so."

"She would." 

His shifting moods had left Donna confused, although she had a strong feeling there was more to this than simply a forbidden pizza. For the first time, she seriously wondered what it was Mrs. Bartlet had told him.

It couldn’t have been good.

Bartlet didn’t give her much of an opportunity to contemplate the mystery. Turning abruptly on his heel, he called back over his shoulder, "Be there."

It had the ring of an executive order. Donna sighed. One way or another, she was going to get into serious trouble over this. She was sure of it. There would be no trial, no appeals, just a summary execution when she was caught. If asked, she’d have candidly admitted that this particular moral quandary was _not_ a problem she’d have thought part of her original job description.

She hoped the pizza was going to be worth it. As a last meal, she could think of any number of alternatives that would have been preferable. And the company? Under any other circumstances she’d have been thrilled. Her only wish was that she could have pegged his mood or clearly understood his motives. The problems just kept mounting. Donna sighed heavily again, uncomfortably aware that it was a useless gesture. Citizen or not, she had no choice but to see the evening out.

The pizza had better be a damn good one.

"Donna!" 

The bellow was all too familiar. Groaning, Donna pinched the bridge of her nose. Alcohol induced or not, she could feel a headache coming on. "Speaking of problems," she muttered, wincing as she spied her personal problem child making his way towards her.

With Amy hanging a bit unsteadily on his arm, Josh Lyman attempted to corner his assistant. "I need..."

"It’s a party, Josh. I’m off the clock." Watching the President weave his way back through the crowd, his ever-present shadows in tow, Donna gave Lyman her best intimidating scowl. "Go away."

"She’s got you there, J." Amy giggled and gave Donna a conspirational wink.

Never one to take a hint, Lyman scowled at both women. The female contingent had been hitting him from all sides this evening. "Donna..."

"Shoo." Donna waved him off.

"Hey! Voice of authority here!"

Amy laughed outright at that rather plaintive protest, earning yet another scowl from Lyman.

Ignoring them both, Donna gathered up her dignity, her purse and one bottle of wine off a nearby table. She had a strong suspicion she was going to need it. Smiling enigmatically at her boss, she leaned forward and said in a suitably clandestine whisper, "I’m on a mission."

Lyman stared at her for a moment, and then said, "You’re drunk."

"That too."

Frankly, Donna could only admit that being buzzed was all that was keeping her from collapsing into a hysteria-induced fit. Hefting the wine bottle in one hand, she smiled sweetly at Josh, winked at Amy, and left them both standing there in confusion. For once, Josh was going to have to figure out his own problems.

Booze, pizza and the President of the United States.

Donna Moss had enough problems of her own.

~ooOoo~

 

The evening was progressing downward at a rapidly increasing rate. Watching Leo McGarry stand with his back to her and slowly leaf through the NTSB report for the third time - even though he’d probably already committed it to memory - Nancy concluded reluctantly she should be thankful for some consistency. Going from bad to worse was all she could expect. Considering the report's contents, only one thing was missing.

She hesitated, measuring him carefully for a moment, then told him encouragingly, "Say it, Leo."

"No."

Her composure faltered a bit at that cold, utterly emotionless response. Perhaps it was her own uneasiness, but she had expected more. Wondering if she harbored some latent, masochistic tendencies, she said, "You’re not normally at such a loss for words."

Closing the file, McGarry turned towards her, his eyes dark with barely contained emotion. He responded in a voice taut with rigidly controlled anger, "The _words_ presently occupying what little well mannered portion of my intellect that remains unclouded by the need for a good solid venting are not what would be considered appropriate for civilized company."

"That might have been easier to say if you had unclenched your teeth."

Dropping the file onto a nearby end table, McGarry growled, "Nancy... "

"Say it. God knows you’ll explode if you don’t, and it’s not like you’re cussing in church."

"Mrs. Landingham could have argued that."

McGarry looked at the closed doors of the drawing room, keenly aware of the two Secret Service agents stationed outside to keep out the curious. They at least were on alert. Muffled, the sounds of the First Lady’s birthday party continued outside. Laughter, music, the clink of glasses and lively conversation; it was all an illusion.

Reality had intruded with a much darker truth.

At that point, the events of the evening caught up with him. How much was too much? Between the medical board questions and his poorly handled confrontation with Abbey, the maze of re-election problems, and now the idiocy of human accountability, he suddenly felt exhausted. His shoulders slumped. There was another truth here, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it.

Sighing heavily, McGarry shook his head and managed a dry laugh. "Is language, questionable or not, all we have?"

Nancy indicated the file laying on the end table and replied in an equally dry voice, "The language is pretty clear."

Collapsing into a chair, McGarry’s laugh took on a bitter edge. She was still fishing for a more colorful response from him. He wasn’t about to give it to her. He didn’t have the energy. "Nancy..."

"Yes?"

"Your timing sucks." There was the truth he couldn’t find. It suited.

Taking a seat opposite him, Nancy regarded him curiously and with a touch of disappointment. "Those aren’t the words I anticipated."

"God forbid I should ever become predictable."

"There’s very little chance of that."

"Have I just been complimented?’ A sad, fleeting half smile crossed his face. "Or should I make the attempt to ignore the implied, however subtle, innuendo?"

"Choose your poison, Leo. I’m too exhausted to try and figure that one out. You’re going to have to get an outside analysis." The sounds of merriment outside kicked up a notch. Nancy rubbed her eyes and grimaced with profound distaste. "I hate parties."

"I haven’t enjoyed them much lately myself."

McGarry took a moment and thought about all the parties previous to this one and how they had all been a chore, rather than the pleasure they should have been. And it wasn’t just the ones at the White House. It was at that point he realized that timing, or whatever you wanted to call it, was all a matter of perspective. Looking at it that way, the evening was advancing quite nicely down the path to complete destruction.

The observation gave him a small measure of grim satisfaction. If circumstances gave him the chance, he’d worry about the whys and wherefores later. Time to get down to business. Picking up the file, his expression stilled and grew serious. "Your analysis of this, Madame Security Advisor?"

 

Clearly hampered by the glaring lack of facts, Nancy shook her head and gave him the only response she could. "We have how, approximately when and where. But not who or why."

"You’ve got the analysis backwards. _What_ plus _how_ equals _who_... "

" ...or a close approximation." She looked at him with honest surprise, and not a little admiration. "You’ve been reading John Douglas."

"Interesting how the study of criminal behavior can far too easily be applied to politics."

"Interesting how the study of criminal behavior can far too easily be applied to politics."

"Don’t go there, Leo."

"You don’t think this is politics?" McGarry asked, regarding her with somber curiosity.

"Do you?" she challenged.

 

"No." It frightened him that he could come to that conclusion so easily and without any doubts. He’d played the game far too long to be fooled by it. He couldn’t deny what the evidence and his instincts were telling him. "It’s too quiet, too cold. It makes no statement, no ringing diatribe against either the President or the system he represents. There’s no gain, no profit other than the strong impression of a highly irritating itch being scratched, and done just as casually. I may be wrong, God knows I hope and pray I am, but this stinks of being personal."

"Agreed." Nancy wasn’t surprised to hear his words reflect her own thoughts and conclusions. Given the opportunity, she knew Admiral Fitzwallace would say the same. It was all still an academic speculation at this point, but an ugly one. "If not personal, then strictly business. There _was_ a profit to be had here. We just don’t see it."

"Who?" Righteous anger, for his friend, the lives lost and the insult to his honor and the honor of the institution tore away at the edges of McGarry’s control. He wanted answers.

 "We’re working on it."

"We’re working on it."

McGarry closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair, trying to relax and knowing it was a lost cause. Rather than set him off, her response served to provide some small relief. Unlike so many bureaucratic excuses he’d heard given with that same phrase, he understood that she meant it. No matter what he might say or do, Nancy and the NSA were working as quickly as they could.

That still left him on the outside looking in. A situation he in no way found at all comforting. Shifting in his seat, he glanced irritably at his watch. "Ron should have found him by now."

"It’s a party, Leo. He’s mingling. There’s what, maybe two, three hundred people out there?"

 

McGarry grimaced as the exact number of warm bodies currently partying down in the ballroom flashed before his mind’s eye. "Three hundred and twenty one."

"For a birthday party?"

"The First Lady was not amused," McGarry responded sourly. 

He’d quickly come to realize a great many things about this entire evening hadn’t amused Abigail Bartlet. The night’s list was an ever-growing accumulation of irritants. However short it may be, he also knew he occupied one of the higher positions on that exclusive register. Hardly an honor, it was a serious toss-up as to whether he or the President held the top slot.

"I can imagine," Nancy was saying, trying in some small way to placate him. She didn’t bother to point out that, even with that large a number of people, finding the President should not be taking this long.

Not unless it was the President himself who was giving the Secret Service a collective ulcer. It wasn’t a totally ridiculous possibility. She’d heard the rumors. At the time, she hadn’t given the stories much credence. Now she was beginning to wonder.

Still, she had to give McGarry something. "Ron will find him. He’s motivated."

That was an understatement. Nancy hadn’t considered the senior agent’s reaction when she’d included him in the initial briefing with McGarry. Ron Butterfield’s granite mask of professionalism had cracked for a split second and she’d caught a glimpse of a burning rage that had nearly taken her breath away. He, along with the President’s Chief of Staff, had been on board Marine One, been victims as well as the man who had clearly been targeted by the attack. They had survived, only just. Others hadn’t.

That moment of unguarded fury had passed as quickly as it came, but when he had taken his leave, she’d been left with the certain impression that the usually inscrutable Secret Service agent was taking this personally.

Her lips tightened as she realized yet another truth. She wasn’t immune to the frustrated anger anymore than they were. They were all taking it personally.

Especially Leo McGarry.

"He should have called a crash," McGarry growled.

"And accomplish what?" They’d already had this argument; one Nancy and Butterfield had won, barely. "Right now the only advantage we have is that whoever perpetrated this has no idea that we know. It was an accident. _They_ have to know the report was delivered. That’s a given. Call a crash now and not only will every guest at this party start asking the wrong questions, but they and whoever _they_ paid to do this will know it too and go so far underground we’ll never dig them out."

"Do you honestly think there’s a chance of that?"

"Finding them? Honestly? Money always leaves a trail, however faint. Let’s not lose perspective here. The security risk is minimal. Leo, I know he’s your friend... "

McGarry’s head snapped up at that. It was rare for any of the senior advisors to acknowledge out loud the unique relationship between the President and his Chief of Staff. That it was a given was accepted, but never dwelled on. Friendship had very little bearing on how he did his job. But it did color it to a significant degree. It was a problem McGarry struggled with on a daily basis. He had yet to find the perfect balance and doubted it even existed.

"Don’t finish that sentence, Nancy," McGarry warned her in a low voice. The problem, as it were, remained his. He didn’t need anyone to rub his face in it. "Friendship doesn’t enter into the equation."

"You’re a better poker player than that, Leo." All Nancy earned with that comment was a dark look through narrowed eyes. She ignored it. "Let Ron and me do our jobs."

"And my job would be?"

"To keep _him_ from going ballistic when he finds out."

"Fine," McGarry muttered, perhaps just a bit sullenly. "Call me Job and give me the impossible tasks."

"You do have a rep as a miracle worker. He listens to you. Can’t say the same for the rest of us."

This time the look McGarry shot her could have melted lead. Ignoring those looks was becoming habit and Nancy felt she was getting pretty good at it. 

Nancy and McGarry started as the door to the drawing room slammed open with a violent crash, then closed with equal force behind the tall, glowering form of Ron Butterfield, Special Agent in Charge of White House security. Both the Chief of Staff and the National Security Advisor were well aware the display of uncontrolled emotion was out of character for the man.

It did not bode well for whatever news he had to impart.

"He did it again," Butterfield growled, glaring at McGarry as if it were all his fault.

The implied accusation was obvious, and in a way, the man was right. McGarry _had_ been the primary mover and shaker behind getting Josiah Bartlet into the White House. Whatever problems and headaches the Secret Service now had to put up with could be traced straight back to him. He could well imagine _not_ being at the top of their Christmas lists. 

Only by reminding himself that the man carried a gun and knew how to use it was the Chief of Staff able to stifle the smug grin that threatened to split his face.

Along with a great many other people tonight, Butterfield was not amused. Eyes narrowing dangerously, he let the Chief of Staff understand in no uncertain terms how he felt. 

Nancy opened her mouth to ask the obvious question, but a quick glance between the two men - McGarry trying to disappear into his seat cushion and Butterfield doing his level best to intimidate and be respectful at the same time - and she decided discretion was the better part of valor.

This was _not_ something she wanted to get in the middle of.

Not long ago, Leo McGarry had speculated on what it would take to make the unflappable Butterfield lose his cool. His own ill-conceived actions at the time had brought the agent as close to the brink as he’d ever seen him. He’d come to the conclusion that it was situational. From the look on the man’s face, the barely contained frustrated anger radiating from him and the state of the door - which more than likely was going to have to have its hinges realigned - he figured the situation control had hit another all time low.

Whatever dark humor he may have found earlier quickly disappeared. McGarry didn’t need to ask what had set Butterfield off this time. "He ditched his detail again, didn’t he?"

Whether it was his training finally taking hold, or the slight possibility he was so far beyond words as to be rendered mute, the agent’s rigid silence spoke volumes. Eyes blazing, Butterfield merely nodded.

"Again?" Nancy had latched on to the apparent keyword in both Butterfield’s and McGarry’s statements. Apparently the rumors were correct, and from the way both men were acting, she didn’t need any further confirmation of her suspicions. "He’s done this before?"

The combined glares from McGarry and Butterfield would have sent a lesser person running for dubious cover. Nancy McNally was made of sterner stuff. Besides, if this was a regular occurrence, she was beginning to have a very strong heart-felt sympathy for what these two had to put up with.

Nancy thought about it for a moment. "Leo?"

"Yeah?"

"His timing sucks."

Butterfield surprised them both by snorting derisively and muttering, "Go figure."

Standing, McGarry straightened his shoulders and tugged at the line of his suit. He stood there a moment, giving both Nancy and Butterfield the benefit of his silence. All things considered, he should have anticipated it. The unexpected had long been what he’d come to expect from the man he’d called friend for more than half both their lives.

In truth, he wasn’t at all surprised.

Settling his gaze on Butterfield, he commanded softly, "Find him."

~ooOoo~

 

"Abigail."

Torn from her thoughts, Abbey jumped violently, barely suppressing a gasp. "For heaven’s sake, John!" she complained heatedly. "I’m not used to you announcing yourself quietly."

Lord Marbury beamed at her. "Dear lady, forgive me," he boomed with tipsy gallantry.  "I simply could not endure the sight of such a beautiful woman standing unattended.  Besides it struck me that, in the heat of my emotional response to your outstanding comeliness earlier, I may have neglected to offer you my sincere felicitations on your birthday."

Abbey rolled her eyes, but could not suppress a fond grin. It was almost impossible to be offended by Marbury's outrageousness, perhaps because most women could sense the honest appreciation that lay beneath. She suspected this apparent forbearance was part of the reason why the Englishman irritated so many of his own gender.  

Another was almost certainly the constant air of near inebriation. Her husband was one of the few men who took the time to see through Marbury's air of blurred caricature to the sharp, incisive mind below.

"Besides," the ambassador's voice dropped discreetly, "it occurred to me that both you and my old friend are unusually despondent this evening." Suddenly appearing perfectly sober, he regarded her gravely. "I want to take this opportunity to wish you well with the Medical Board tomorrow. I am aware it won't be easy. But what you did was born of love and affection, and concern, too. No action that stems from such motives can ever be regarded as base, and I believe the board will realize that as we, your friends here gathered, do."  He gestured with his glass to indicate the crowd milling around them.

Abbey ducked her chin as she felt the emotion welling up inside her.  She reached out and squeezed their old friend's arm affectionately.  "Thank you for that, John. It means a great deal to me, and to him. But there will be no hearing tomorrow."  

At the man's raised eyebrows, she took a deep breath and told him, "I've decided to voluntarily forfeit my medical license for the duration of Jed's time in the White House."  

The British Ambassador was silent for a moment before speaking. "Well, it is a brave decision, and a gallant one. Also, I know it means a very considerable sacrifice to you.  You are a highly talented surgeon and doctor.  But if you and the President feel this is the best decision for you... "

Abbey interrupted him with an abruptness that surprised even herself.  "No, John.  This is my life and my decision.  Jed was gearing up for a fight on my behalf.  I only told him of my decision a short time ago." A faint, oddly bitter little smile twisted her lips. "I rather think I yanked the rug out from under him."

Marbury paused a moment.  "I see."  

He glanced around the room, as if seeking out the object of their conversation, then turned back to Abbey. "That would certainly explain the somewhat... deflated air I noticed about him since your return to the party."

Abbey instinctively glanced around herself, but Jed was now nowhere to be seen. With a slight frown, she hoped he wasn't plaguing the unfortunate Charlie again. At least the toast was safely delivered now.  Donna was now arguing with a petulant looking Josh, and clearly having the last word in that particular conversation.

She mentally applauded the young woman. It was about time Lyman learned to appreciate the jewel he had in his assistant.

"Yes, I think he was hoping to be able to ride to my defense somehow."  Her tone was wry. "You know, save the day, slay the dragon." The last words slipped out unconsciously, "Make amends."

The words and the unspoken accusation lay between them and Marbury regarded the glass in his hand thoughtfully.  

Abbey shifted uncomfortably and looked around for her errant husband again. Still no sign. She was slightly puzzled to see that several of his constant shadows were still present. Since the accident, Butterfield had discreetly but discernibly increased the President's personal detail, ignoring a couple of executive tantrums on the subject with his trademark calmness.  

Of course, he had found a stalwart ally in Leo McGarry, and the President had discovered that no amount of rank pulling created the slightest impression on either man's determination.

"If it isn’t too personal a question, how did he take the news?"  Marbury was reclaiming her attention.

Abbey smiled at him. She had always found it easy to talk to this man.  Jed and she had friends in common, but Marbury was one of the few who held both of them in equal regard. Even Leo, whom she liked and always trusted to look out for Jed, was somehow more her husband’s friend than hers.  Now that he was also her husband’s Chief of Staff, that division was even wider. His present duel role in Jed’s life made some subjects simply too difficult to discuss easily.

"You mean, about my forfeiting the license?" Abbey paused to throw her mind back to that intensely personal moment there in the crowed ballroom. "He was shocked, I’m sure.  Very shocked.  I think he expected me to continue to fight." She looked up at the elegant man beside her. "He didn’t understand, it wasn’t a case of my giving up. I had a revelation of sorts this evening.  I don’t regret having helped Jed, but I violated several professional tenets I had sworn to uphold by doing so. I’m not accepting censure for my motives, but for the way I handled things. Jed’s already stepped up and acknowledged his own responsibility, and done so with some grace and dignity.  I decided it was my turn to do the same."

"Hmmm."  Marbury was giving her his full attention.  "It is certainly a very impressive gesture on your behalf.  I hope he appreciates it, and you."

He was fascinated, and more than a little envious of Josiah Bartlet, as he watched a tender smile of remembrance lighten the First Lady’s features.  

"He told me he loved me very much," Abbey answered softly, momentarily basking in the warm glow the memory bestowed.

"I don’t think you ever doubted that," Marbury interjected gently.  "Certainly no one here who watched the two of you together ever thought otherwise, even when things were at their most uncomfortable between you."  

A twinkle in his eye, he gave her a typically courtly little bow. "I have always held Josiah Bartlet to be a lucky man in his ability to win and hold your love. But I will say this for my old friend, I do not think it could have happened to a better man." 

Abbey felt herself blush a bit at that.

Seeing her embarrassment, Marbury puckishly added, "I’m sure he will thank you appropriately too." He was startled to observe his companion’s features darken abruptly in angry realization. "Abbey?  You’re still angry with him. Why?"

Abbey gave a short, mirthless laugh.  "Yes I am, John.  And I’ve only just realized why."  She scowled around the room.  No, still no sign of him.  Where had the man got to now?  "He never said thank you.  Damn him anyway.  I gave up my license, my _career_ , for him, and he never even said _‘Thank You’_."

"I... see."  Lord Marbury winced at this evidence that, President of the United States and Noble laureate or no, Josiah Bartlet was still not winning any prizes when it came to judgment calls about his wife. "Well, I know it’s not much of an excuse, and even when you know he’s grateful it is still nice to hear him actually say it, but you _did_ take him by surprise with your announcement... " 

He broke off as he saw an expression of irritated dissatisfaction flash across Abbey’s face. Leo McGarry and Josh Lyman might have plenty to say on the subject of the British ambassador, but even they were forced to acknowledge, however grudgingly, that the man was a perceptive observer of human nature. "But that’s not all, is it?" he asked quietly.

"Hmmm?" Abbey’s attention was momentarily distracted by a slight flurry among the group of Secret Service agents nearest to her. 

They were such a constant presence that normally the First Couple had little difficulty in disregarding them, but every once in a while those silently efficient and intimidating figures made their presence felt. She guessed that some idiot had probably tried to crash the gate. It often happened when the White House hosted a party, sparking the usual discreet security alert despite the fact that the perceived threat usually had a snowball’s chance in hell of setting foot on White House grounds, never mind inside the executive mansion. 

Or maybe it was something else?  This flurry seemed a little more agitated than usual, and was spreading out in tiny little ripples, passing over the oblivious guests to encompass the other agents scattered throughout the room. Then Ron Butterfield emerged from the side room with a face like thunder to engage in a controlled but unquestionably heated _sotto voice_ debate with a flustered looking Agent Carlyle.  

Abbey rolled her eyes in sympathy for the agent, who was on her husband’s personal detail.  She sincerely hoped that Jed hadn’t done it again. It really was too bad of him.  Butterfield looked like he was about to have a seizure. A few more vigorous exchanges, then Carlyle took off out of the ballroom, while the Security Chief retreated back into the side room.  He emerged again a few moments later and Abbey could have sworn that she heard the door slam behind him, even over the sound of the orchestra.  

"He didn't give you what you wanted."

"Sorry?" Abbey's attention was jerked back to her conversation with Marbury. "The thank you?  No.  No, he didn't."

"I don't mean just that." The Englishman met her puzzled gaze squarely. "You hadn't even thought of that until a few moments ago.  I mean he didn't even give you the chance to say _'See what it feels like'_."

"John... " Abbey’s eyes were beginning to narrow in a fashion that would have caused her husband, had he been present, to hastily withdraw and regroup.  

Marbury's own sense of self-preservation seemed to have been dulled by the alcohol. Either that or he believed diplomatic immunity extended its protection even to the wrath of the First Lady. "You didn't consult him about your decision."

"No, I didn't." Abbey's tone was testy. "I told you, John. My life and career, _my_ decision."

"So you presented him with a _fait accompli_."

"If you want to put it that way, yes."

"You took a major decision that affected both your lives, and you didn't consult his thoughts on the issue. You simply told him what you were going to do."  Marbury took a deep breath and struck straight to his point. "Just as he did to you when he decided to run for re-election."  

Silence.  

Marbury broke it first.  He spoke gently, sensitive to the roiling emotions of the woman beside him. "I know, it's not exactly the same thing.  But you _did_ make a major decision without discussing it with him; something that I know is unlike either of you. Admit it, there was just an element of payback there. You wanted him to know what it was like, to get angry with you for deciding without him. Then you could ask him how it felt."  

The ambassador was warming to his subject, gesturing freely with his fortunately empty glass for emphasis. "But he didn't give you that satisfaction, did he? No anger, no challenge. He simply accepted your decision, because you told him it was what you wanted to do. He respected your wishes."  

Abbey simmered quietly.  John Marbury was one of their oldest friends, and she had been convinced that if anyone would sympathize with her, it would be he. But honesty compelled her to admit that he _was_ being sympathetic, and that he had a point. She had taken her decision from the purest of motives, but there had been a flash of vengefulness in her decision to present Jed with the finished act.  

She _had_ wanted him to feel something of how she had felt when she had sat in their bedroom at the Residence and listened to that fateful news conference.  

But instead of responding with anger or wounded pride, or attempting to talk her out of it, he had had the nerve to totally disarm her with that simple, accepting declaration of love.  Once again she had been left with nothing to rail against. Oh, she knew the decision had wounded him, left him feeling horribly guilty. That much had been clear from his reaction.  But he hadn't questioned her decision for an instant.  

_He respected your wishes_. Why did regarding the evening in those terms make her feel vaguely uncomfortable?

Marbury had paused to gauge the atmosphere, and now decided to go for broke. "Abbey, why were you so angry with him after the news conference?"

She whirled to view him incredulously. "I can't believe you asked me that question. He broke his word to me, John! We had a deal. One term only, and he broke his word!"

"Yes, he did." Marbury managed to keep the surprise from showing on his face. _One term?_ The _deal,_ as it were, and the President’s breaking of it, put in plain words what Abbey was feeling, explaining her still simmering anger. He regarded her intensely. "And that fact isn't to his credit. But Abbey, why did you hold him to it in the first place? You know how good he is at this.  Why didn't you reconsider holding him to a promise made when neither of you really believed he would ever be granted this opportunity at all? Why allow him to hold this office in the first place if you weren't going to let him give it all the time and energy he had to give?"

"Precisely because it _does_ take so much of his time and energy!"  Mingled frustration and fear caused Abbey's voice to catch in her throat. "Do you know that medical opinion believes the most beneficial long term treatment for MS is to live as stress-free and restful a life as possible?"  She smiled grimly at Marbury's whimsical expression. "Yeah, he sure picked the right job, didn't he?"  

She laid a hand on her companion's arm, desperate to make him understand.  "John, this office can exact a considerable toll. He was my husband before he ever was President. I want to know I'll get that same man back once we're finished with this place. I won't lose him to this job!"

Marbury's features were grave. "You're afraid for him", he stated quietly.

Tears blurred Abbey's vision.  She blinked them away, refusing to let them fall. Looking away, she whispered, "Yes, I am. I love him, John."

"And he you." Marbury waited until she met his eyes again. "You've never seriously doubted that, have you?"  When she mutely shook her head, he continued quietly. "So, why make it a contest. Why force him to choose?"

"I'm not!"  Abbey protested, startled.  "I'm a doctor. I'm fully aware of the dangers... "

"Are they really so much greater if he remains in office?"  Marbury interrupted her. "He has after all had only one attack since he began. And he is surrounded by the best in medical care. Be certain now, are you speaking from the knowledge of a doctor, or the fear of someone who loves and dreads to lose him?"

Abbey glared at him defiantly. "A bit of both", she admitted reluctantly. "Does it matter?"

Marbury smiled gently at her. "It matters if what caused you to hold him so tenaciously to his promise, despite knowing that it was against his own wishes, was certain knowledge or merely fear of a future possibility." He leaned forward to speak quietly. "Abbey, your husband is a remarkable man.  He has served his country well at home, and represented her abroad with grace and distinction. I have seen enough of the cynicism and apathy of international diplomacy to know the worth of a world leader who is prepared to make hard decisions, yet allows himself to be guided by a sense of morality. The world needs more men like your husband in positions of power."  

Drawing back, giving her a moment to think, he regarded her intently. Finally, satisfied she’d had enough time, he challenged her gently, "Ask yourself, honestly, do you really believe that he is incapable of continuing to serve for as long as he is needed?"  

Abbey stood with slightly bowed head, considering the new perspective just offered her.  She had known Jed wished to be released from their agreement. He loved the work he did, and desperately wanted to continue it for as long as possible.  And he was good at it.  She felt real pride in the way he administered his great responsibilities. 

So, why had she ignored what she knew to be his personal desire? She knew her actions had been inspired by her fears for his health, but had there also been just a touch of selfishness there too? She definitely didn't want to lose him, and this job seemed so often to threaten to snatch him away. She had wanted to keep him safe, for her sake as much as his.  

She looked up, to find Marbury regarding her quizzically, head on one side. She gave him a smile and was promptly beamed upon with an extravagance characteristic of all the Englishman's actions. She felt her own smile instinctively widen in response.  

Abbey was still irritated, but the anger had cooled. Jed had better find the right words when next they met, if he knew what was good for him. And he still wasn't absolved by any means. There had been a great deal of blindness on both sides in recent months. But she felt a turning point had been reached.  For the first time in a long time, she had ceased merely reacting and started to think again. Maybe it was time to see if she and Jed couldn't finally have that long overdue talk at last.

Touching Marbury's arm, she smiled gratefully up at him and said, "John, would you excuse me? I rather think I need to go find my husband."

Marbury saluted her with his empty glass as she left. Rocking back on his heels, a small, satisfied smile lighting his face, he watched her weave her determined way through the crowd in search of her husband. A true diplomat’s job was never an easy one, but it did come with no few rewards.

Tonight, at least, he’d earned his title. Staring morosely into his empty glass, he decided filling it would be ample recompense and headed towards the bar.

~ooOoo~

"The Egyptians were the first people to celebrate birthdays." Scowling, Bartlet picked the last bit of onion off the pizza slice. It was overpowering evidence. Next time he bullied a staffer into a reluctant bit of apportionment, he’d have to remember to warn them. Nothing like the lingering smell of an onion to let the blood pressure police know he’d broken the law.  "Did you know that?" he asked, before taking a bite.

Donna chewed thoughtfully for a moment before answering. She was having no problems with the onions. Personally, she loved them and as Josh repellent they were indispensable. The Deputy Chief of Staff hated onions and considered anything even remotely touched by them hopelessly contaminated. Any pizza so decorated was safe from his scavenging.

Watching Bartlet, she was forced to conclude that apparently New England presidents weren’t quite so picky.

Swallowing, she said, "I thought it was the Babylonians?" She’d lost her nervousness early on. Whatever else she had expected, this agreeable, quietly relaxed, simply pleasant gentleman hadn’t been part of her fevered speculation. Every once in a while, she even managed to forget that he _was_ the President. Against her better judgment - and despite Josh’s insistence that she _had_ no better judgment - she was enjoying herself.

And she was holding her own in the useless factoid department. Donna was rather proud of that. Of course, the more than half bottle of wine she’d polished off certainly helped in lowering her social and conversational barriers.

"Nah. The Egyptians beat them to it. Of course, only the members of the Royal family were honored with a celebration." Bartlet’s voice retained a genial tone, but a suggestion of annoyance hovered in his eyes. The parallels with what was going on upstairs were a bit too close to a historical truth and a sour present day reality. Only not nearly as much fun. "The local peasantry was left to best guess their date of birth."

"Probably figured it by harvest years. ‘You’re twenty-six harvests old today, let’s see about adding another to your tally, make it a good one’."

"Could be. Pity the poor kid born during a famine."

"Or when the Nile didn’t flood. That would suck."

"Bad luck, that." By no means a snob as so many political opponents had accused him of being, Bartlet was still impressed by Donna’s performance so far. At this point in the conversation, he was used to getting the _‘deer in the headlight’_ look from any cornered staffer.

It was a pleasant change of pace. 

"Yeah, a social pariah." Donna tossed a tail end crust into the box and picked up another slice of pizza. Happily taking a fortifying bite, onions and all, she finished her commentary around a mouthful, "‘Don’t talk to him. On the day he was born, the Gods dusted the inundation. It was all his fault’. Talk about carrying a load."

Bartlet winced at the innocently delivered observation, a momentary look of discomfort crossing his face before he masked it with mild indifference. Right now, he didn’t need to be reminded about whose _fault_ anything was. He was all too aware that following the line of pointing fingers led directly to him.

With suitable gravity, he selected another slice of pizza and began the process of making it safe for consumption. The pile of onion bits was growing exponentially. No hint of his troubling thoughts was in his voice when he said, "The Greeks broadened the concept a bit. All adult males were entitled to a celebration each year. Women and children weren’t very high on the priority list, so they didn’t get one."

"Chauvinists."

"Probably."

"Definitely." 

That unequivocal analysis required something a bit more empowering than pizza. Reaching for her drink, she decided her luck this evening hadn’t really been all that bad. Having forgotten to grab some glasses when she’d snitched the wine, Donna had been relieved to find that Ainsley’s office had come complete with the paper variety, saving her a return trip. 

She’d have to mention the idea of a utensil stash to Josh. After all, you never knew when a hidey-hole was going to need supplies. Or when a party was going to branch out into unknown territory.

Speaking of parties, another silly historical tidbit occurred to her. "And they didn’t know when to quit. Kept on celebrating even after the honored doofus bit the big one."

"The Greeks knew how to party down."

"Any excuse to bust open a jar of wine," she noted sagely. Taking a healthy sip of hers and draining the cup, Donna decided that wine from a Republican paper cup tasted just as good as it did from Democratic crystal.

Life was just full of surprises.

"They invented the birthday cake, too," Bartlet said, politely waving her off when she offered to top off his drink. His brow rose with amused surprise as he watched her happily empty the bottle into her own cup. "Probably the ensuing sugar rush as well."

"And considering who the candles on that cake were supposed to honor, this whole _males only_ thing totally bites."

"Artemis, goddess of the night."

"Moon."

Bartlet frowned. He wasn’t used to being corrected. "Night," he insisted stubbornly and with suitably affronted ceremony. Quite sure he had won this round of trivial pursuit, he lifted his own cup and took a sip, waiting patiently for her to acknowledge the point.

Totally missing the presidential clues, Donna shook her head vehemently. "Moon. See, the candles were supposed to represent moonlight, which means moon, so Artemis... " She looked up and finally realized whom she was contradicting. Making a quick save, she stammered, "Of course, I’m sure _night_ is included in the whole honoring thing somewhere. Moon, night, they both kind of go together, right? Inseparable."

In danger of crushing the paper cup in nervous hands, Donna waited for the ax to fall. She’d seen Josh after a presidential dressing down too many times to count. Considering his state, she hoped her scolding wouldn't hurt quite so much. She attempted to give the President a weak smile, failed miserably, and then braced herself for the inevitable.

Bartlet tried to maintain a disapproving expression, and then he grinned. He couldn’t help it. Watching Donna squirm wasn’t quite as entertaining as putting his Deputy Chief of Staff on the hot seat, but it was close. 

Besides, as a gentleman, he was bound to let a lady off the hook. "We’ll go with that for now," he said, more than a trace of laughter in his voice.

Donna visibly relaxed, on the point of melting with relief and slumping into her chair. Saved by the bell. Letting out the breath she hadn’t been aware she was holding, all she could manage was a sickly smile of gratitude.

"I’ll have Charlie look it up and get back to you."

Donna couldn’t hide her surprise at that revelation. "He does that?" 

"Charlie?" Bartlet shrugged a bit self-consciously. "Occasionally. I can’t remember everything."

"Really?" Donna asked with a teasing drawl, one eyebrow raised with comic skepticism. She hadn’t meant it to come out that way; it wasn’t exactly respectful. Still, it wasn’t everyday a minor mystery was solved. 

"Sharing your pizza entitles you to a great many things, Ms. Moss..."

"Sharing, sir?" Now she was interrupting him. It was the wine, had to be the wine. Ignoring the warning signs - she’d never been accused of being verbally challenged before, so why start now - Donna threw caution to the wind, took another healthy swallow of wine and said, "I thought it was an executive order?"

Helping himself to another slice of pizza, Bartlet grinned smugly and replied archly, "Rank hath its privileges. A minor, yet endlessly entertaining perk."

"Like torturing your staff?"

"And you don’t?"

"Torture my staff?" Donna drew herself up and announced proudly, "I don’t have a staff."

"Just Josh."

"That’s enough," Donna sighed with long suffering dedication.

Bartlet laughed at her forlorn expression. When it came to Josh Lyman, most of the staffers, senior or otherwise, had acquired the same look at one time or another. "I’m curious. Why so haughty over a lack of staff?"

Emboldened by his gentle laugher, not to mention the wine, Donna answered with a satisfied grin, "I’m incredibly efficient, a staff of one."

"Lucky Josh."

"I’d be ever so grateful if you’d remind him of that for me, sir. He forgets." Wrinkling her nose, she thought about it for a moment, then admitted honestly, "Besides, I don’t think I’d know what to do with one. A staff, I mean."

"Half the time I don’t either."

"Only half?"

"Touché."

"And Donna Moss scores!" She might have gone a bit too far with that, but quickly rejected the idea as absurd. After all, the President _had_ been the one to start this and he was still smiling.

Still, it wouldn’t hurt to play it safe. Unable to quite stifle her grin, she added a bit more respectfully, "Sir."

Her wide-eyed innocence was merely a smokescreen. Eyes narrowed speculatively, Bartlet studied her for a moment, then asked carefully, "Exactly how much wine have you consumed this evening?"

"Probably far too much." On that note, she finished what was in her cup with a flourish.

Donna picked up the empty bottle and stared at it morosely. It was a truly sad sight. Where had it all gone? A quick glance at the President’s cup, the original and still with about half its contents, and she was forced to consider the evidence.

The conclusion wasn’t a pretty one. "Considering the evidence, or at least what I perceive to be the evidence, way, WAY too much. Sir, with all due respect, you’re not making me look good."

Just to make her happy, Bartlet lifted his cup and took a token swallow. "I’m driving."

"Oh." Donna blinked a few times and thought about it. Somehow, it made sense. In a truly bizarre way, he _was_ driving. "That’s okay then." 

The President’s only response was a dry chuckle.

As a long, heavy silence descended, Donna tried to figure out if she should feel some relief or nervous that she had finally gone too far. When the President was in this kind of mood, it was hard to tell which way a person could turn. Watching him absently swirl the contents of his cup, staring off into space, she decided the silence had been his choice. Either he’d had enough pizza, or had grown tired of picking it apart for onions. His last slice lay forgotten in the box. 

It had been a good pizza, too. Definitely not a good sign.

The conversation seemed to have staled for him as well. Whatever peace of mind he’d sought and found, however briefly, had eluded him once more. As it had earlier that evening, it struck Donna once again that something else was going on here.

"So," she began, praying she wasn’t sticking her verbal foot in a bear trap. "How’s the party going?"

"Truthfully?"

"I don’t think I could handle the truth. There’s been far too much of it tonight."

Bartlet’s short laugh had a bitter edge to it. "Now there’s a glaringly blunt yet oddly innocent observation."

"Sucks, huh?"

"An understatement," Bartlet muttered, scowling into his cup. "A highly evocative word, _sucks_. I’ll have to suggest to Sam that he work it into the next State of the Union. I may as well invite the ire of the Hill as well as those few who tune in to watch the circus. Piss them all off, let them join the club. God knows it’s not exclusive."

Confused and not completely sure where this was going or whether she really wanted to follow; Donna asked warily, "Sir?"

A depressed smile pulling at the corners of his mouth, Bartlet told her candidly, "I’m trying, but I can’t think of one person, who matters, that I haven’t managed to piss off."

"Leo?" Donna suggested helpfully.

"Hides it well."

"Charlie?"

"Incredibly annoyed, bordering on pissed, but it’s still directed at me."

"Toby?" The moment she said his name, the absurdity of her suggestion was immediately apparent. She didn’t even have to think about it. "But then how could you tell? He’s always angry about something."

"Trust me," Bartlet replied with dark emphasis, all humor lost, "he’s not happy."

"Is he ever, sir?" Donna asked with all seriousness. A _happy_ Toby staggered the imagination. Suddenly, she brightened as she thought of the one person who by his very nature couldn’t possibly be pissed at the President. "Sam?"

"Crushed. That’s even worse."

"CJ?" Donna wasn’t about to give up so easily. Then she remembered what happened upstairs. "No, wait. She swallowed cork. She wouldn’t do that if she were emotionally stable."

Bartlet was almost afraid to ask. "Swallowed cork?"

"It was very ugly, sir. A screwy corkscrew, poor hand-eye coordination. It was pitiful. You really don’t want to know. What about Lord Marbury?"

"Elegantly ticked, but still angry."

Donna took a deep breath and sighed. She was running out of names and the President wasn’t helping. Scowling with frustration, she muttered, "Amy doesn’t count."

The President nearly choked on the wine he was in the process of swallowing. Coughing, he caught his breath and managed to croak, "Thank God for that."

"Josh sort of just... twists in the wind. You gotta love him, but his emotional attention span lacks any cohesive staying power." Realizing what she’d just admitted, and that she could only partially blame the wine, Donna began to stammer an apology, "Oh, God..."

"Donna, please. Let’s not start that again."

"I’m not mad at you," Donna told him sincerely, meaning every word. She wasn’t sure it was what he wanted or needed to hear, but it seemed the right thing to say.

"I stole your pizza."

"It’s a good pizza. Plenty to share, executive order or not."

"You’ve an innate talent for diplomacy, Donnatella Moss."

Donna shuddered dramatically and said with all seriousness, "Ick. What a nasty thought."

Bartlet stared at her incredulously for a moment, then burst out laughing. The high art of the diplomat had found its best and worst critic, someone who with blunt honesty called things as she saw them. All things considered, he couldn’t bring himself to totally disagree.

Donna relaxed at the sound of his laughter. While still a bit subdued, it was at least heartfelt. He was going to need it, because only one name was left to toss into the emotional hopper.

Keeping a mental eye out for those pesky verbal bear traps, Donna regarded him with wary concern and said, "Well, sir, that leaves..." She couldn’t quite bring herself to finish the sentence.

Sensing her reluctance, Bartlet finished the sentence for her. Letting out a long, audible breath, he said in a soft, resigned voice, "My wife."

"Yep," Donna couldn’t lie to him. "She’s definitely pissed."

"Yet another diplomatic understatement?"

Donna shrugged uncomfortably; increasingly unsure as to how far she could take this. Even being who he was, who he was married to, what had happened upstairs with the girls - and in this case, the First Lady was _definitely_ included among that sorority - was strictly an alcohol induced confidence. The present level of alcohol in her blood stream didn’t change that.

"Let me guess," Bartlet offered with a wry yet indulgent glint in his eyes. "I’m a jackass."

"I vaguely recall that word being used."

"Applied to me, no doubt."

"Maybe."

"Diplomacy again. Good girl." The President couldn’t help but laugh at her reluctant candor. 

As he’d told her earlier, Abbey hadn’t given him a single clue as to what had gone on upstairs between the girls. But he was more than capable of coming up with a few good guesses. He knew his wife. Hell, he didn’t have to _guess;_ he knew all too well that when Abbey was well and truly ticked at him no other word would serve. It was her favorite. Three decades of marriage had infused that simple word with a myriad of hidden nuances and she was fully capable of including each and every one in a single, heartfelt burst.

Bartlet was used to it, and right now he couldn’t deny the truth. He deserved it. The good Lord knew he hadn’t been fair to her. She’d given up so much and he hadn’t even had the courage to ask why. What had he given her in return?

Grief, and nothing but. He was getting pretty good at it; yet another bitter truth. No matter how hard he tried, he kept missing her signals, passing her by. The easy way out, using the office as an excuse, once more disappointing the woman he loved. When exactly had he started doing that, and so easily?

Lately, he had given Abbey too much of everything, except himself.

Scowling, he took a swallow of wine. It could have been vinegar for all he tasted it.

Bartlet didn’t know why, maybe because she’d earned it with her patience, but he felt he had to tell Donna part of the truth. "She’s giving up her license."

For a moment, his words didn’t register in Donna’s mind. When they did, she could only offer a confused, "Sir?" 

"Voluntarily. For the duration of our stay in the White House." His lips twisted wryly at that, and he added with heavy sarcasm, "However long that may be."

"Oh."

A pitiful response, but all she could come up with. It was at that moment Donna guiltily realized she had begun this. Her words. How she’d said them and when she’d said them. One blunt, ill advised but honest statement that had spurred the First Lady’s decision. The harder she tried to ignore that truth, the more it persisted. While she had been confused at the time, unsure of whom she was talking to; it had been Mrs. Bartlet all along who had been listening.

Beyond any logic or reason, her thoughts driven by a heartfelt instinct, Donna also realized it was the only decision Abigail Bartlet could make. Wife, mother and healer, she’d chosen the only path circumstance and her husband had allowed her. She could have fought, but she didn’t.

Donna hoped and prayed that someday she could show that same kind of courage and depth of love. It was humbling.

"Did you tell her thank you, sir?" she asked tentatively, trying to put the pieces together and still feeling a touch of guilt. Watching him stare blankly at the desktop, the thought occurred to her that maybe helping him fix this would give her a bit of release.

Startled at the question, Bartlet’s head jerked up and he snapped, "What?" It came out a bit sharper than he had intended.

Donna flinched. She’d put her foot in it again. "Mr. President, I’m sorry. It’s none of my business..."

"Thank you?"

"Pay no attention to me, sir. Lately I seem to have developed a taste for shoe leather and toe fungus. I think I need therapy."

The President gave no indication that he’d heard her, staring off blankly into empty space. "I told her..." his voice trailed off. Failure slumped his shoulders and he rubbed his eyes wearily. "Shit."

Donna began to shift uncomfortably in her seat, squirming. This has gotten into territory she was not at all happy with. Losing it with the First Lady was one thing. Losing it with her husband, who just _happened_ to be the President of the United States - First Lady, President, she should have copped to that one sooner - was a horse of another color. And she couldn’t lay all the blame on the wine.

What was it Leo was always telling the staffers? Think before you open your mouth? How hard was that simple advice to remember?

Donna wondered if she was starting to like the taste of her own feet. Pizza, booze, the President of the United States; she didn’t know if it was the combination of all the above, or simply the logical conclusion to a biblically awful evening.

At that moment, one of the ingredients to her downfall made its inevitable presence known. As a closing chapter, it somehow seemed a touch anti-climactic. Shooting an urgent glance towards the office door, Donna said, "Umm, sir?"

Lost in his own thoughts, Bartlet wasn’t listening.

"Sir, I really have to..." What was the polite way to say this? "...go."

"Go?" Reluctantly dragged back from his thoughts, he looked up at her curiously, nearly smiling in sympathy at what he saw. The empty wine bottle - and no doubt the companion bottles consumed earlier - was exacting its revenge. Her eyeballs were nearly floating. 

Absently waving his hand, he gave her silent permission to leave.

"I’ll be right back," she promised before bolting.

And she left, perhaps a bit faster than circumstances and the somewhat august company would allow. Bartlet couldn’t really blame her. He’d unfairly put her on the spot, although his guilt over the subterfuge was balanced by what he’d learned.

Watching the door swing closed behind her, he pondered the wisdom of one young lady who had not yet been corrupted by a cruel world. So simple. So easy. He hadn’t seen it, but Donna had. He wondered if Abbey did.

"Jethro," he muttered.

_Not_ jackass.

His wife had understood. He was beyond jackass.

Bartlet’s hand slammed down on the desk angrily, perhaps a bit more forcefully than prudence would have allowed. Shaking out his pained fingers, he gave himself the title Abbey had refused. 

He had, after all, earned it. Blind stupidity had its rewards.

"Jackass."

This, at least, he could fix. He hoped. If it wasn’t too late.

~ooOoo~

 

Something was up.

Joshua Lyman crossed his arms and leaned his shoulder against the door jam, letting his gaze slowly travel the length of the ballroom and with some concern carefully noting the stepped-up security activity. The Secret Service was trying to be discreet and were, for the most part, doing a pretty good job. Extra agents were stationed at the exits, more than the usual chatter into palm radios and earpieces. Checking out a few of the guests, gauging their reactions, he figured nobody not already in the know had figured it out yet. Probably wouldn’t. The majority of the guests \- unlike him - were having too good a time to even care.

A tight expression settled on Lyman’s face and he thought sourly, _‘Lucky them.’_ His fortune hadn’t been quite so good tonight.

Watching two more agents - they always traveled in pairs - exit the ballroom with grimmer than usual expressions, hands to their earpieces, Lyman couldn’t deny the facts any longer. Party or no party, they were far more intense than was customary given the situation. 

Without evidence to the contrary he couldn’t be exactly sure, but something was definitely up. Laying his next paycheck on that would be a safe bet, about the _only_ safe bet he’d take tonight.

He’d just come back from pouring Amy into a cab. He was still trying to figure out how to confront the First Lady about getting his girlfriend plastered and filling her head with ideas. As if she hadn’t had enough of those to begin with. The ideas weren’t the problem. He could deal with those. It was the overdose of _smug_ she’d laid on him afterwards that he hadn’t wanted any part of. Lord, but that woman knew how to drive a point into the ground, and then stomp on it mercilessly till any sort of logical resistance was futile.

Thank God, point made and driven home, she’d been okay about leaving. Amy’s machinations and gloating was one thing. Her _drunken_ machinations and gloating resembled one of Dante’s levels of hell. Which one he hadn’t been able to figure out yet, but quite probably the lowest and the nastiest. Lyman couldn’t really blame her; you took your opportunities where you could and private parties with the First Lady were few and far between. But tonight wasn’t the night for her games. He’d just wanted to have fun.

A thin-lipped smile on his face, he candidly admitted to himself that he should have known better. If anything, Amy was _not_ what you’d term typical and her idea of fun often bordered on the Machiavellian.

Pushing himself off the wall and shoving his hands in his pockets, he debated whether or not he wanted to stay. It hadn’t exactly been the evening he’d imagined it would be, and judging from the Secret Service activity, he just might want to leave while he still could. His date, the party and the evening had been a total bust.

Well, not quite all of it. A fond, indulgent smile lit his face as he thought about Donna. He’d done good there. At least he had something to be proud of tonight. Feeling just a touch smug himself, Lyman figured that would be a pretty good note on which to call it a night.

Spirits out of tempo with the sounds of gaiety and laughter around him, Lyman was about to leave when out of the corner of his eye he spied Leo McGarry along with Ron Butterfield and Nancy McNally huddled near the main entrance. Taken separately, each of those individuals would send up warning flags. Take them together, add the flurry of activity going on right now, and the final sum was not a reassuring one.

Trying not to appear too obvious, Lyman watched them with as much nonchalance as he could manage. Butterfield soon left, moving off into the crowd with a tight expression on his face he could only describe as... angry. No other word for it. The man was ticked.

Then Nancy turned to leave and Lyman caught a quick glance of the National Security Advisor’s face. She had never been what he’d call an easy read, but the signs were there. Angry again. It was a toss-up as to whose slow burn would erupt into an all-consuming conflagration first.

As for Leo, Lyman didn’t need a road map. He’d known the man since he was a kid, learned the rules of the political game from him and watched him make his mark in the party and as Labor Secretary. Now, as one of the most influential Chiefs of Staff in living memory and the most powerful non-elected official in the White House, it was clear that Leo McGarry was on the hunt. His face as he scanned the milling crowd was a study in tightly masked emotion.

Lyman frowned. And there was that anger again. This was not good.

The storm warning flag went up another length on the flagpole. From the look on the man’s face, Lyman had a very nasty suspicion who his boss was hunting for. He hoped he was wrong, but experience had taught him that that much focused emotional energy was usually reserved for only one man.

Resigned to his fate, it was at that point Lyman realized that he wasn’t going to be leaving the building any time soon.

From across the room, Leo McGarry made eye contact with his deputy. With a curt nod of his head, he motioned for the younger man to follow him out into the hallway. Pasting what he hoped was a sincere smile on his face, he muttered a few niceties to passing guests, shook a few hands, and politely ignored the rest.

Right now, politics and refined social pleasantries were the furthest things from the Chief of Staff’s mind. Let the curious guess if they wanted to, but he was feeling as far from pleasant as he could possibly get.

Taking his deputy by the arm as he drew near, McGarry stepped across the hall and took up a position that provided a good view of the ballroom interior and the length of the corridor. And a bit of privacy. He was taking no chances.

Struggling with the uncertainties aroused and the myriad of questions he wanted to ask, Lyman quietly voiced the one that covered the most bases, "What’s up?" McGarry would choose the answers.

"Nancy got the report," McGarry kept it simple, keeping his voice low and hoping Lyman hadn’t been into the booze too deeply. A quick glance up and down the hallway assured him that none of the wandering guests were paying any attention to them or getting suspicious.

McGarry silently prayed that innocent ignorance would continue.

Eyes narrowing, Lyman held his silence for a moment, studying the Chief of Staff. The man could have been talking about any number of reports, none of which would have brought him to this stage. Knowing McGarry and recent events, he didn’t need to guess. "The accident." 

"It wasn’t."

"Son of a bitch." He _definitely_ wasn’t going home any time soon. The heightened security made sense now, but not why it hadn’t been taken to the ultimate level. "Why no crash?"

"Not now, Josh."

"Hell, Leo! They’ve called crashes when a chipmunk sets off a ground detector. This..."

"...is different." McGarry frowned at him, silencing him with a black look. All he needed at this point was some passing guest to hear Lyman fly off the handle. The glare worked. He nearly laughed at the _‘crushed puppy’_ expression that inevitably crossed the younger man’s face when he got stepped on. "Ron’s people are on it."

"Does _he_ know?"

Lyman flinched and took an involuntary step backwards as McGarry turned things up a notch and shot him an even darker, hooded glare. That familiar look and the buzzing security could only mean one thing. "I don’t believe it. He did it again, didn’t he?"

Grateful beyond words that Lyman’s powers of deduction hadn’t failed him, McGarry could only clench his jaw till he could hear his teeth cracking. President or friend, he knew if he gave in to the urge, the stream of invective wouldn’t stop.

Silently chewing on a few choice words of his own, Lyman eventually could only observe dryly, "His timing sucks."

"You are not the first to make that observation."

"How the hell does he do it? There’s what, thirty, maybe forty agents on this floor alone. What’d they do, all blink at once?"

It was a question McGarry would have paid any price to have the answer to. "I’m sure Ron has considered that possibility." And if there were one thing he was sure of, Josiah Bartlet would continue to do so until they _did_ figure it out.

Another certainty was that the President was not going to make it easy. Forty years of friendship assured him of that. Shaking his head, he could only conclude that the fault was his. He should have known that, ground rules or not, the unpredictability of his friend guaranteed his life on a day to day basis was _not_ going to be boring.

"They know what he looks like, right?" Lyman was asking sarcastically, his voice dangerously close to breaking into a higher volume range. "His picture in their wallets and everything?"

"Now you’re getting silly."

"I’m silly?" Insulted, Lyman was more used to getting that sort of comment from Donna than the Chief of Staff. Considering the whole of the evening, he should have expected it. "Teenagers could recognize him on the street!"

"Your average teenager couldn’t recognize their school principal on the street, let alone the President of the United States."

"Fair point."

"The Secret Service is _not_ staffed with teenagers."

"Could have fooled me." 

Tapping Lyman on the chest with an adamant finger, McGarry warned the younger man with all seriousness, "You’d best not let Agent Butterfield hear you say that. He’s looking for someone to take it out on."

"Now that’s a scary thought." The accompanying shiver of expectant dread was only partially dramatic. Lyman had a pretty good imagination and Ron Butterfield was... intimidating.

Satisfied that he’d made his point, McGarry pulled back a bit and said, "Here’s a scarier one, Joshua. We need to find him, now. Before Ron does call a crash."

"Ron, hell. You’re gonna call it."

"Damn right."

A familiar voice made itself heard over the party’s din. Glancing across the hall into the ballroom, Lyman saw Mrs. Bartlet talking with Lord Marbury. The conversation appeared somewhat animated and neither participant looked happy. She turned away into the crowd, leaving Marbury alone with a somewhat bemused expression on his face.

A thought occurred to him and he asked cautiously, "Have you asked Mrs. Bartlet? Maybe she..."

"Hell, no!" McGarry responded with some heat, horrified at the thought. "Like I’ve got enough problems without letting her know we’ve _misplaced_ her husband? We wouldn’t need a crash at that point."

"She doesn’t know about the... thing?"

McGarry laughed shortly, hoping he was only imagining the tremor he heard in his voice. Only Jed Bartlet could have brought him to this stage. The thought wasn’t exactly a fond one. "Tell her about the _thing_ right now and they’ll be looking for him through the rubble of the building."

"Another fair point."

"I’m full of them tonight," McGarry muttered, shoving his hands into his pockets. "When was the last time you saw him?"

"I was with Amy..."

"Don’t remind me."

Boss or not, Lyman was getting a little peeved with the smart-ass remarks regarding Amy. "Hey..."

"Josh," McGarry repeated with infinite patience, "where?"

Apparently the entire evening had devolved into _‘pick on Josh’_ night. Sighing with resignation, Lyman searched his memory. The original reason escaped him - but it must have been important at the time - but he’d been hunting for Donna. He recalled seeing both of them, the President and his erstwhile assistant, from across the room. The incongruity of the pairing had struck him as odd and Donna had unquestionably appeared flustered and cornered.

That thought had barely crossed his mind before another hit him. It was ridiculous, but considering the participants and the fact that Donna possessed a truly lousy poker face, the conclusion made a bizarre logical sense.

Or at least he hoped it did. Somehow, this entire evening had defied the normal rules of sound reasoning. "Donna," he said, turning his attention back to an impatiently waiting Chief of Staff.

 "Focus, Josh," McGarry growled, rolling his eyes with exasperation. "The President, not your secretary."

"Executive assistant."

" _Josh_!"

Lyman backed up and hit the wall. He hated it when McGarry got like this. "He was talking with Donna."

McGarry perked up at that and regarded Lyman with intense expectation. "When?" he asked eagerly.

"About a half hour ago."

"Did they leave together?"

"He left. She stayed." For some time after Donna had left, despite Amy trying to add her two cents in, Lyman had been unable to stop himself from thinking she’d been up to some sort of mischief. She generally was, but now he was sure of it. "Something happened, Leo. She wasn’t all there after he left, kinda distracted, confused."

"Our Commander in Chief has that effect on a great many people. Besides, she works for you, Josh. Give her a break, why don’t you?"

Scowling, Lyman risked giving McGarry a dirty look. "Thanks, Leo," he muttered.

He didn’t feel the need to relate everything Donna had said before she’d abandoned him, doubted whether McGarry wanted to hear it. But considering whom she’d been talking to, she _had_ said something fairly interesting.

Fixing McGarry with a steady, sure regard, Lyman told him, "She said she was on a mission, Leo. It’s a long shot, but..."

"Long shot my ass!" McGarry cut him off angrily. Turning sharply on his heel, he stalked off down the hallway and confronted one of the Secret Service agents stationed outside the drawing room door.

Caught off guard, Lyman scrambled to follow, catching up just in time to hear McGarry telling the agent to pass the word and to locate and detain Donna Moss. 

"...bring her here!" he ordered sharply, grabbing the door handle and yanking it open. Motioning for Lyman to follow him, he snapped, "Inside!"

Sparing a brief thought of profound sympathy for his assistant, Lyman swallowed nervously and reluctantly followed McGarry inside. He should have left while he had the chance. Honesty forced him to admit he’d had no choice in the matter, but there was no longer any doubt about it. His immediate future was secured.

When she found out about his part in this, Donna Moss was going to kill him.

The wait seemed interminable. Glancing at his watch, Lyman tried to figure how long it would take the agents to locate Donna. From the way they swarmed during the weekly practice crashes, his speculation was that it shouldn’t take them all that long. But then, they couldn’t seem to find the President, let alone one of the senior assistants.

Wincing, he decided to keep that errant thought to himself. No sense inviting trouble and the ire of far too many irritated and well-armed people. Looking up, he watched McGarry impatiently quarter the room like a caged lion. He was getting tired just watching him.

"Leo..."

"Tell me I’m wearing a hole in the carpet and I’ll not be held responsible for my actions."

"Wasn’t going to." Actually, he was, but he didn’t think McGarry needed to know that.

McGarry’s pacing came to an abrupt halt and Lyman’s head snapped round when the door opened. Hand to his earpiece, Ron Butterfield gave both men a curt nod and said something quietly to the agent stationed outside before closing the door.

Without further acknowledging Lyman’s presence, he turned directly to McGarry, "We’ve got her. They’re on their way."

Lyman squeezed his eyes shut and winced. Donna was _definitely_ going to kill him. Messily and painfully. Feeling a bit weak in the knees, he collapsed into a nearby chair with a loud, melodramatic groan

"What’s with him?" Butterfield asked McGarry curiously.

McGarry smiled thinly and replied, "No doubt contemplating his mortality."

Butterfield gave a muffled exclamation that was somewhere between a grunt and a chuckle.

"They’re gonna be... nice to her, right?" Lyman asked weakly.

One arched brow was the only indication McGarry found anything even remotely amusing. Dryly, he asked Butterfield, "Does the Secret Service even know how to be nice?"

One corner of Butterfield’s mouth twitched, as close as circumstances and his training would allow him to a smile. Another time or place and he wouldn’t have allowed himself even that. But since the accident, he and McGarry now had an understanding. In some ways, it made things easier.

And even though he wouldn’t have dared to admit it aloud, a great deal more fun.

Leaning forward, Lyman buried his face in his hands and groaned, "I’m dead."

Butterfield had a pretty good idea what was troubling the Deputy Chief of Staff. Not much went on in the West Wing that he or his people didn’t hear about. Certain staffers had become minor legends. It was no great feat of deduction to figure out what Lyman feared.

Turning to McGarry, the senior agent inquired with stoic composure, "Think Ms. Moss will let us watch?"

"Donna’s a practical girl. I’m sure there will be tickets."

Pretty sure he was at the end of his rope; Lyman included both men in the wounded, accusing look that crumpled his face. "You know, life around here was a lot easier when you two barely acknowledged each other’s existence, let alone..."

The rant was rather rudely interrupted when the door opened. With an agent holding her elbows on either side, Donna was hastily escorted in. Almost literally carrying her across the threshold, they brought her to the center of the room. Feet barely brushing the floor with each step, her darting glance quickly settled on the most intimidating man in the room, a very unhappy looking Butterfield.

From the concerned looks on their faces as they carried her forward, McGarry concluded the Secret Service agents weren’t so much treating her as a suspect as they were worried that if they _did_ let go of the girl’s arms they’d have a limp disaster on their hands.

Finally set on her feet by the accompanying agents, barely managing to lock her knees before she collapsed, Donna took a deep breath and thanked the powers that be she’d been able to make it to the bathroom before they’d caught up with her. Otherwise this entire frightening situation would have included a seriously embarrassing accident.

Butterfield dismissed both agents with a commanding look, and then turned his attention to Donna. A rabbit cornered in a dead fall by a hungry panther probably looked a great deal calmer. Not unaware of the affect the Secret Service had on the staffers, the menacing impression their presence and training left on even those who were familiar with their jobs, he softened his expression and took both of her hands in his. Leading her to a chair, he invited her to sit down.

Ron Butterfield wasn’t a complete ogre, and right now he didn’t want her thinking he was one. This was his job, but if she fainted from sheer terror he wasn’t going to get any answers.

Crouching down, lessening his imposing presence, he looked into her eyes and smiled at her.

In unison, McGarry and Lyman’s jaws dropped in shock.

Donna nearly melted. Butterfield had smiled at her and it looked like he actually meant it. It was an odd thought to have, especially now, but he had a very nice smile underneath that mustache. Swallowing some of her fear and nervousness, she asked him in a small voice, "What did I do?"

"You didn’t do anything, Ms. Moss," Butterfield sighed and shook his head a little sadly. He honestly didn’t like feeling like a bully, and right now her fidgeting was making him look like one. Perhaps it was the circumstances, but a little more of his reserve disappeared and he began to mutter, "Knowing the President..."

Donna started guiltily. "The President?"

Butterfield exchanged a knowing look with McGarry and patted the poor girl reassuringly on the shoulder. Shaking his head, he levered himself up and stepped away. "The President," he said, holding the Chief of Staff’s gaze and daring him to contradict his conclusion.

McGarry didn’t even bother to try. 

"Where is he, Donna?" McGarry asked, stepping forward and trying to keep his tone unthreatening, a not so easy task considering his mood. The girl looked like she was still ready to bolt.

"He’s with the pizza."

 "No games, Donna," Lyman warned her with exasperation. The words may have sounded playful but the meaning was not. "You’re not making me look good..."

Donna flinched.

Butterfield and McGarry silenced the Deputy Chief of Staff with a collective glare. Gratefully, Donna watched as Josh withered and, feeling a little braver, added a dangerous warning look of her own.

Shrinking back under the onslaught, Lyman scrambled out of his chair and stammered, "I’m just going to go stand in the corner now."

"You do that, Josh," McGarry told him, meaning every word. Turning back to Donna, he gently asked again, "Where is he, Donna?"

The alcoholic fuzz, rapidly clearing from her mind, dissipated a bit more, but not quite enough. "I thought it was an executive order," she answered vaguely.

"It probably was," Butterfield muttered darkly. "In all likelihood, it’s not your fault."

Donna beamed up at him gratefully. He really was a nice man. "It _was_ my pizza."

"Pizza?" McGarry echoed incredulously, finally putting the pieces together. Throwing his arms into the air, he growled a sincere promise, "I’m gonna kill him."

Donna gasped.

Lyman stared at his boss with open-mouthed amazement.

Butterfield shook his head sagely and said with cool aplomb, "I can’t let you do that, Mr. McGarry."

"Why?" McGarry challenged him, throwing caution and whatever good sense he had left to the wind. "You gonna get there first?"

Donna almost choked.

Lyman’s mouth closed with an audible snap, nearly biting off half his tongue.

Butterfield’s eyes narrowed, an unidentifiable glint in his eyes leaving everybody to guess what was going through his mind.

McGarry shook his head. Words. Just words. "Where is he, Donna?" he asked again, beginning to feel like a parrot and so tired now his nerves throbbed. Hoping that maybe, just _maybe_ this time he’d get an answer, he waited.

The last of the fuzz cleared, giving Donna a good impression of the men’s seriousness. "Ainsley Hayes’ office," she told them in a tiny voice.

"Hiding among the Republicans." It was so simple. McGarry could have kicked himself for not thinking of it first. "With the pizza?"

Not all of the fuzz was gone. "What’s left of it."

Butterfield was already talking into his palm transceiver. Message sent, he gave McGarry a brisk nod, then turned another relieved smile on Donna and said with all sincerity, "Thank you, Ms. Moss. We’d have found him eventually, but you’ve saved us some time."

That gentle smile was another minor miracle, but they were all getting used to it. Including Butterfield. He chalked it up to the greater than usual stress he’d been under lately.

Donna, feeling a bit braver, asked, "How did you know?"

McGarry hooked his thumb towards the man trying to hide in the corner and said with some relish, "Josh told us."

Donna drilled her boss with a supremely dark, promising look.

Lyman sighed heavily. Life couldn’t get much better than this.

Feeling some relief that it was all over, McGarry couldn’t help a sincere laugh. The next few days in the Deputy Chief of Staff’s office was going to be interesting. If Donna were smart, she _would_ sell tickets. She’d make a fortune. He sure as hell would buy one.

Standing off to one side, Butterfield put his hand to his ear. Listening, his face went stone hard and he demanded harshly into his palm mike, "Say again?" Curtly waving off the others questions before they could be asked, he listened for a moment, then swore hotly, "Shit!"

Lips tight with frustration, anger and something the observing Chief of Staff couldn’t quite put his finger on, the senior Secret Service agent told them all flatly, "He’s not there."

"Shit!" McGarry took his turn at swearing. They’d been so close!

Donna shrank back into her chair, clutching at the armrests and looking horrendously guilty. "Oh my God," she whispered.

"Donna?" McGarry asked, alarmed and concerned. She looked like she was about to faint or be sick. He prayed it was the former.

"I lost the President."


	2. Farther off from Heaven 2

**Farther off from Heaven**

**by:** Anne Callanan and Kathleen E. Lehew

**Disclaimer:** Aaron Sorkin owns everything

**Characters/Pairing:** Jed and Abbey of course, but take notes. _Everyone_ gets his or her moment in the limelight here.  Seriously.  We'd have even resurrected Mrs. Landingham if we'd dared.

**Category:** Category: Drama, humor - we hope! -, a tiny bit of action, several emotional upheavals - for everyone - and a dash of intrigue. Again, nobody told us to stop, so we didn’t  <G>.

**Rating:** Just to be safe, TEEN. Some language - after all we _are_ dealing with Jed here - and a few minor adult issues.

**Spoilers:** ‘Dead Irish Writers’ and our story "A Frightened Peace". Alas, it is sort of necessary you be a little familiar with both. 

**Author's Note:** As noted above, this is the sequel to our story "A Frightened Peace". While that tale was a torturous exercise in mechanical mayhem, this one is an equally tortured exercise in marital mayhem. That, and while we loved ‘Dead Irish Writers’, the resolution of nearly one whole season’s worth of emotional battles left us just a little... disappointed. So, we tried our hand at a bit of a follow-up, adding a few things of our own along the way just to make life a little more interesting for our favorite couple.

We hope you enjoy it.

To any lawyer reading this, we do not own these characters in any way, shape or form. Somebody else does. In lieu of some seriously expensive therapy, we’re just having fun.

Major thanks to Sheila for doing an amazing job of beta'ing this.  Sorry for keeping you from your own writing, Sheila.  We can't wait for you to get back to it either.  Any mistakes remaining are ones Sheila simply couldn't persuade us out of.  We're stubborn that way.  We even had the cheek to use phrases like _'stylistic choice_ '. <G>

**Summary:** This is the follow-up to our story "A Frightened Peace", and what we think _really_ went on behind the scenes immediately following the events depicted in ‘ _Dead Irish Writers_ ’.

* * *

“Damn, I kicked up an ant hill this time." As observations go, Bartlet had made better and with far more penetrating acumen. Still, there was a great deal to be said for plain speaking.

The Secret Service had shifted into high gear. Not the ultimate level, but pretty damn close. Letting out a slow breath and keeping an eye on yet another pair of extremely agitated agents hurrying past, he realized that while his latest escapade had been worth it - onions and all - his timing sucked. The current level of anxiety being displayed by his well-armed and somewhat combustible chaperones wasn’t going to help him achieve his latest objective easily.

He wanted, no, he _needed_ to find Abbey.

There was any number of ways the President could go about locating his wife. It was simplicity itself. All he had to do was ask. Unfortunately, _asking_ meant being seen and he wasn’t quite ready to be seen as yet. Right now he was on a mission and as far as he was concerned the job, the country and the world could take a flying leap.

A quick survey of the ballroom assured Bartlet that Abbey was no longer in attendance. The search didn’t take him long, it never did. He’d always been able to pick her out of a crowd, instantaneously focusing on her to the exclusion of all else. He knew the ability annoyed her, especially since she couldn’t duplicate it with any degree of accuracy. When asked how, he’d simply smiled enigmatically and told her, _“Magic."_

That smug comment usually earned him a playful wallop on the arm and an indulgent laugh. He missed that, her laughter and spirited amusement. The good Lord knew he hadn’t given her much to be amused about recently. Defying common sense, it was a talent he seemed to be developing of late, excluding her and ignoring the warning signs. Even more than he, she’d been pulling away; hiding behind walls he’d helped her build.

He had no one to blame but himself.

_‘I love you very much.’_   Damn, but that had been lame. Bartlet shook his head, suddenly vulnerable in the face of his own stupidity. How could he have missed it? Thirty-four years of marriage and he _still_ managed to trip over his own folly when it came to the woman he loved.

It was obvious now that Abbey had been waiting for something more and, as usual, he’d failed her. It was becoming routine.

Frowning, he shoved his hands into his pockets and turned away from the disappointing scene. Even without the guest of honor, the party was still going strong. _‘Hell, why not?’_ he thought with some heat. It _was_ the White House. While those few friends and family members in attendance truly did respect the occasion, the rest were there merely to see and be seen; the art of bureaucratic kiss ass and politics at its worst.

A shadow of annoyance crossed Bartlet’s face and he clenched his jaw, stifling the muttered curse he was on the verge of uttering. It would have been a dead giveaway. Any _language_ at this point would only draw attention to himself, and so far his luck had been holding.

At the other end of the corridor he caught sight of Donna being efficiently escorted by two forbidding agents into the drawing room. Scowling and biting back yet another curse, he didn’t have to guess who was waiting for her inside. The executive _absence_ had been noted. Leo and the bloodhounds were on the chase and, with the cornering and capture of his somewhat plastered partner in crime, they were getting far too close for comfort.

He was running out of time. Knowing Donna, she’d keep them confused, but not for long. Leo McGarry, especially in the menacing frame of mind experience told him his oldest friend was probably cultivating to the exclusion of all else, would have her sobered in short order. And if Ron Butterfield were in there as well...

“Better her than me," Bartlet risked muttering, the cynicism of that remark pricking at his conscience. His lips thinned with guilt-inspired irritation. The poor girl deserved better than that. Being raked over the coals was paltry reward for her innocent kindness and befuddled compassion.

His movements deliberately casual, Bartlet turned on his heel and moved off in the opposite direction. Beating his conscience into submission, he decided that atonement and Donna were just going to have to waiting line, along with Leo and everyone else. Right now there was only one person he wanted to find.

_Finding_ her was the trick.

Taking the nearest side corridor, he found himself alone. For the moment anyway. The current level of activity dictated that wouldn’t last unless he could find some safer ground and his wife. Not really paying attention to his direction, he soon found himself wandering into the pressroom. Empty of course. The news tonight was elsewhere.

Starting to feel depressed, Bartlet stared at the empty chairs, and then let his gaze travel to the seal prominently displayed behind the podium. Fat lot of good hiding behind _that_ damn thing had done him. Exhaustion enveloped him as he tried to concentrate, to ignore the ache that had started to creep up his lower back. The muscles in his right thigh were beginning to protest as well. 

Abbey would have told him he was pushing it, that he didn’t know when to quit.

Bartlet laughed shortly, dropping wearily into one of the chairs. Lately, neither one of them had known when to quit, when to cry pax and be done with it. Rubbing his eyes,he had to honestly admit he was the worse culprit when it came to that particular failing. _He didn’t know when to quit_.Absently running his hand along his leg, he could feel the rough edges of the scar beneath the fabric. 

With a shiver of vivid recollection, he relived the crash. Stanley would tell him he should _remember,_ not relive, but he couldn’t help it. The terror and helplessness of not knowing when or where the next blow would fall. The darkness of the wreck and the howl of the storm screaming outside. Of being lost.

Of being locked in a box.

Pressing both hands over his eyes, he drove the memories away. This wasn’t working, nor was it helping. That event was over. In the hospital afterwards and during the weeks following, he and Abbey had been so close to a resolution, but then it had slipped away. As it always seemed to these days. Nothing would hold.

Tilting his head back, he blinked and listened as the sound of hurried footsteps passed by outside. Nobody looked into the room, probably already had. Bartlet smiled thinly. If any of them had grown up with his father, they’d have known exactly how to find him, where to look. With that man, you learned how to hide, to gather those few moments of peace when you could.

Hiding, it would seem, was something he had become very good at. A pity the one person he _had_ been hiding from was nowhere to be found. _And whose fault was that?_ Weary of the internal argument, Bartlet pushed the thought aside. Blame no longer had any place. All that remained was resolution.

If he could find it.

From behind him, he heard the sound of more footsteps, this time approaching. Without looking back, Bartlet sensed someone enter the room, cautiously drawing near. He closed his eyes, grimacing. He’d run out of time, they’d found him.

“Congratulations," he growled with a sarcastic drawl, angry and determined not to make it easy on whomever it was. Intellectually, he knew it wasn’t the agent’s fault, but he was tired. _Sick_ and tired of the interruptions. “You’ve found me. Do you get a prize?"

Leaning back, he insolently lifted his feet up onto the back of the chair in front and muttered sullenly, “What’s next?"

~ooOoo~

Whatever else you might say about the place, it was almost impossible to fault the quality of White House hospitality. The Scotch was truly excellent **,** thus making it an even greater shame that Lord Marbury couldn't indulge to the degree he would have liked.  Despite his reputation, he was far too experienced a diplomat to allow himself to actually become drunk at an occasion such as this. Birthday party or no, this room contained almost as many potentially offendable political personages as any world summit. He _was_ the British ambassador after all.  

No, pleasantly mellow might be acceptable - more than acceptable from what he could observe - but caution advised against any serious imbibing, especially in the wake of his get-together with Toby Ziegler earlier. 

Both of them had rather drowned their sorrows at their mutually distasteful errand, but it had proved a surprisingly pleasant meeting in the end. An understanding **,** if not a solution, had been reached and Marbury had found himself even enjoying the company of the laconic Communications Director. To his credit, the man had excellent taste in whiskey as well as a keen understanding of literary history.  

However, that shared appreciation was the cause of his present _relative_ abstinence. Even if he hadn't been aware of his position, he wouldn’t for the world have risked embarrassing the Bartlets in any way. Both had more than enough to contend with at the moment without also having to deal with old friends creating diplomatic incidents.

Fortunately, years of practice had left him with a higher tolerance to alcohol than most, and an ability to retain a certain dignity of manner and speech even when pretty far along.  There was still some leeway for enjoyment.

Marbury brightened at the thought.  Besides, he had already put in a considerable amount of work earlier this evening, which surely deserved some reward. Abbey had certainly seemed a little more focused when she had left him.  Now it was up to Josiah to work it out for himself when she caught up with him.

Marbury wished the man the best of luck and fervently hoped that he would be able to deliver.  Abigail Bartlet was not in a mood to be put off or be deflected by any poorly timed displays of humor. Still, if Bartlet's mood earlier had been any indication, the humor shouldn't be a problem. It had almost been possible to see the black dog crouched on the President's shoulder.  

The ambassador sighed heavily at the thought. Josiah had always been a man who felt intensely. Depression did not sit well on him. The quiet, introverted, almost invisible man it produced was a nearly unrecognizable contrast to his normally animated persona.  Marbury much preferred the latter. _That_ man was never less than interesting to be around, even electrifying at times. The other personality by contrast was oddly troubling. He had always wondered where his sunny, quick-tempered friend had developed a capacity for such deep melancholy.

Of course, in such a close marriage, any schism was grounds for depression.  Normally, the Englishman did not consider himself marriage counselor material, but he had felt unable to simply stand to one side.  What were friends for after all if not to meddle, and maybe point out a few uncomfortable truths?

The fact that neither of the First Couple had reappeared in the ballroom was grounds for hope that they had finally managed to find each other and have that talk. Marbury scanned the crowd to confirm their absence, and then looked again.

Something was up.

The other guests didn't seem to have noticed, but Marbury had served as diplomatic representative and trouble-shooter for Her Majesty's government to some of the more tense and trigger-happy areas of the globe, including India.  Long exposure had made him sensitive to any change or heightening in the security levels around him, even when the force in question was as discreet as the US Secret Service was being at present.

Still, low-key as it may have been, there was no mistaking those particular symptoms.  Every agent in sight was on full alert, eyes darting everywhere and in constant communion with their palm mikes and each other. More were threading their way around and in and out of the room, moving at a purposeful and swift pace. The air of strained concentration was practically visible, once you knew what to look for.  

Cautiously, Marbury withdrew behind a convenient potted palm to assess the situation.  There was definitely a problem and not a minor one either. It was hard to see what could possibly go wrong at a White House party, but then these agents were at the very top of their field. They did not flap without due cause, and a flap, albeit it a very restrained and controlled one, was unquestionably what Marbury's trained instincts told him he was witnessing now. And the US Secret Service only ever went into a panic over one man.  

He rather suspected the conversation between Josiah and Abbey was about to be rudely interrupted. And after all that intricate spadework **,** too. _Damn!_ What the devil could possibly be wrong?

This required some thought, and a new strategy. If the First Couple had indeed been interrupted he might have to have a plan in place to get them talking again. Marbury regarded the glass in his hand thoughtfully. He might not be drunk, but he had to admit he had some time ago passed the point of razor sharp awareness. Some fresh air might help.

He managed to negotiate the palm successfully, and made his way across to the French windows.  A grim-faced agent opened them for him, and giving the man a suitably vacuous smile of thanks Marbury stepped out onto the deserted terrace with a sigh of relief.  

Frowning in thought, he meandered across to lean on the railing overlooking the lawn.  Looking down, he noticed with a slight spasm of irritation that he wasn't quite as alone as he had hoped. 

A lonely figure - female, he noted with profound delight - was sitting hunched on the steps leading down to the lawn; elbows on her knees and chin cradled in her hands. The very picture of dejection. Marbury squinted in the moonlight. The figure shifted slightly and unleashed a deep sigh that seemed to rise from somewhere around her ankles **.**

The ambassador's eyes widened in recognition. "Ms. Moss, is it not?" he called.

Donna jumped violently, one awkwardly folded leg shooting out and almost tipping her onto the step beneath. "Lord John! I mean, Lord Marbury... I mean, Mr. Ambassador…" Mentally wincing, she settled for, "Good evening, sir.  How are you?"

"Very well indeed, thank you." The British ambassador jumped lightly down the steps and settled down beside her. "This evening has turned out to be surprisingly productive. And enjoyable." He smiled encouragingly at her and waved his glass for emphasis. "You on the other hand don't seem to be having quite such a good time, if your demeanor is any indication."

Donna sighed and wrapped her arms around her knees. "I swear, I'm never getting drunk again."

"Oh, don't say that," her companion chided. "Sometimes it's the only thing that makes the occasion bearable. Speaking personally, I've had some of my most interesting and memorable conversations while under the influence."

"Yeah, me too," Donna muttered. She unleashed another gusting sigh. "Right now, the only difference between me and Josh is that I at least admit that I can't hold my drink."

"Say something you shouldn’t have?"  Seeing the spasm of anguish cross his companion's face, Marbury leaned towards her sympathetically. "Want to talk about it? I'm actually quite a good listener. And I've always enjoyed our conversations."

Donna looked at him. In her current depressed and still slightly befuddled state, she had a very low resistance to the idea of a sympathetic listener. Besides, he _was_ dreamy. And goodness,that accent…

She blurted it out, "I lost the President."

"You mean you can't contact him? Well, I'm sure if the matter is urgent, one of the agents will tell you where he is."

Donna shook her head despondently. "No, you don't understand. _I_ lost the President. And Ron Butterfield is being really nice about it, but he needs to find him, and Leo's mad _and_ worried, and Josh is going to make my life a living hell for this…"  

"I beg your pardon?" Marbury blinked. Somehow he hadn't been expecting that.  Although, if true, it would go some way towards explaining the observations that had sent him out on to the terrace in the first place. "If you don't mind my asking, how is it possible …"

"I don't know." Prior to this evening, and the rumors notwithstanding, Donna would have bet it _wasn't_ possible. Just her luck to be the only witness when Bartlet pulled off something she and everyone else could have sworn would be impossible to achieve under the eagle eye of Ron Butterfield and his agents.  

Now regretting those last two drinks, Marbury struggled to come to grips with the situation. "You mean, _nobody_ knows where he is? At all?" When Donna nodded, he muttered, "Oh, dear." Trying to bring his own slightly intoxicated senses to bear, he asked carefully, "But you say that _you_ lost him?"

"I didn't exactly _lose_ him …"

"Lose who?"

Donna jumped again, this time clutching at her companion's arm to save herself as the voice boomed out from overhead, its tones suspiciously slurred.

"Ms. Cregg!"  Marbury disentangled his arm and managed to unfold his lanky limbs with a degree of grace. He greeted the newcomer gallantly,"My dear lady! You look even more glowing than usual tonight."

"Positively alight," Toby Ziegler remarked dryly, blowing gently on the end of his cigar and placing his other hand under the Press Secretary's elbow to help her negotiate the steps. "We thought some fresh air might help. Might help both of us," he amended hastily as CJ glared at him.  

CJ drew her arm away with exaggerated and careful dignity. "I am no more drunk than you are," she declaimed and deliberately turned to bestow a smile on the ambassador. "Lord Marbury, how nice to see you. It's always a sincere pleasure to meet with a true gentleman."

Behind her, Ziegler rolled his eyes. "CJ, I'm going to do you the credit of assuming you'd never perpetrate a sentence structure like that while sober." 

"Toby, you're as much of a pain in the ass drunk as sober," his colleague said heatedly.

"Thank you."

"At least I have an excuse!"

"The First Lady made you?"

"Yes! I mean, she said we were going to go get drunk. That's practically the same as an executive order!"

"Tell me about it," Donna sighed dejectedly. "I actually _was_ under executive order. At least, I think it counts as an executive order. If _he_ gives it, it has to be, right?"

"The President ordered you to come get drunk with us?" CJ asked confusedly. There was no mistaking who Donna meant by _he_ , just the _how_ and the _why_.

"No! That was the First Lady. I mean later."

"The President ordered you to come get drunk with him afterwards?"  Ziegler's eyebrows arched.

"NO!"

Marbury tried to be helpful. "Donna is afraid that she is responsible for having lost the President."

"I'm sorry?" CJ and Ziegler spoke in perfect tandem, then turned to glare at one another.

Donna was starting to feel that she would be repeating the story of this night's events for the rest of her natural life. At least the constant repetition was starting to sober her up. A little. "When I say I lost him, I mean…"

"Lost who?"

Donna moaned and let her forehead thump against her up drawn knees as Sam Seaborn emerged into the light at the foot of the steps. This time it was CJ who jumped and nearly went over backwards, before Ziegler made a grab for her arm.

"Sam?" Holding onto a still wobbly CJ, the Communications Director squinted down at his deputy. "What are you doing out here? Clearing your head as well?"

"Oh, I haven't been drinking. I was just working on the first draft of the President's opening speech for the nuclear disarmament conference and decided to stretch my legs."

Seaborn mounted the steps, apparently unable to resist the pull of gravitational attraction that a huddle of any of the senior staff always seemed to generate. "Say, does anyone know what's going on? The agents seem very jumpy tonight. I've been challenged five times so far."

"I'm not sure," Ziegler answered dryly. "But if Donna has indeed managed to lose the President, I can well imagine a certain level of agitation."

"You lost the President?" Seaborn regarded the huddled lump of human misery before him in surprise. "Really? I mean, really, _really_ lost him? How’d you do that? And what were you doing with him in the first place?"

"It wasn't exactly my fault!" Donna defended herself. "I mean, I couldn't help him overhearing me, and it _is_ his house so I couldn't really say no. And _he_ was the one who wanted to go somewhere private, and I thought Ainsley's office would be isolated enough. But he lost the agents, not me. I don't know how he did that."She sighed, dropping her head back onto her knees. "And he did seem to enjoy it…"

"Uh, Donna…" Sobering rapidly, and thanking a for once benign fate that no members of the press corps were anywhere within earshot, CJ tried to interrupt. "Please tell me what you're talking about, and let it not be what it sounds like."

"What?" Donna blinked in confusion and looked up at the faces surrounding her.

Marbury merely looked slightly bemused.  Ziegler's expression could be best described as inscrutable, but he was giving his cigar tip an undue amount of attention. CJ seemed to have achieved spontaneous sobriety and to be finding it an unpleasant experience, while Seaborn's features showed a slowly dawning horror… and betrayal. Puzzled she stared at him. She hadn't seen that particular expression on his face since he found out his father...

"Oh!"  As the sudden realization swept over her, she blushed right up to the roots of her hair. Embarrassed and enraged that they could even think that of her, of _either_ of them, she blurted out, "For heaven's sake, guys! It was a pizza!"

"A... pizza?" Ziegler repeated carefully, taking a deep, calming drag on his cigar.

CJ huffed out an equally deep breath of relief.

Marbury continued to give the conversation his confused attention, apparently in hopes that a coherent explanation had to emerge soon. He was fairly certain the law of averages was on his side.

Seaborn simply stood there, blinking and staring. 

"Yes!" Irritation was lending brevity to Donna's narrative style. "A pizza!  I got a craving.  I ordered one. The President heard me and voted himself in. I couldn't exactly refuse and I _don’t_ have veto power. Besides, he looked like he needed cheering up. We needed somewhere private for him, so I suggested Ainsley's office. He managed to ditch his detail - don't ask me how - and we ate and talked and drank. Well, I drank," she amended ruefully. "He didn't really. He was driving. But we talked. It was actually rather nice," she concluded wistfully.  

And it had been, until she had put her foot in it again. Not that he seemed to have held it against her. Still, she doubted he would be inviting her to a tête-à-tête again anytime soon. Which was a pity. Donna had truly enjoyed the experience once the initial panic had subsided. Her partner in crime had proved very pleasant company, an entertaining conversationalist and a kindly, even charming companion. Still, he _had_ landed her in this present mess.

"You gave the President pizza?" Seaborn's mood had lightened wonderfully during the course of these revelations, and he now seemed to find them vastly amusing. "Donna, do you have a death wish? You _know_ Mrs. Bartlet won't allow him anything like that.  Remember that dressing-down Agent Wilkes got when the President persuaded him to sneak him a hamburger?"  

"It was an executive order!" The response was practically a wail. _Nobody_ in the White House, including the President, fancied being on the receiving end of the First Lady's wrath, especially on the subject of the Chief Executive's health.

"That's what Agent Wilkes said." Seaborn was enjoying himself far too much. He had been on the receiving end of Abigail Bartlet's wrath on more than one occasion, and didn't see why anyone else should be spared the experience. "Cholesterol, Donna.  Something the First Lady firmly believes the President should have no contact with whatever, despite his best efforts to thwart her. And you _know_ how she feels about being thwarted."

“Agent Wilkes sure as hell found out," CJ said, shaking her head sadly at the memory. “He got _thwarted_ but good. The poor guy."

Donna moaned again, desperately wishing herself somewhere, _anywhere,_ but here.

"Sam," Ziegler interrupted. "Much as I hate to interrupt you when you're torturing Donna, I would still like to know what all this has to do with her losing the President." He glanced down at the pitifully miserable young woman. "From the level of security alertness Sam has observed, I take it he really _is_ missing?"

"Yes." Dejection was evident in every line of Donna's body. "I left him in Ainsley's office, but when Ron Butterfield sent someone to check, he was gone. And nobody else has seen him since."

Ziegler scowled at that revelation, chewing unhappily on his cigar.

"Don’t worry, Toby." Seaborn waved a dismissive hand. "It's not like he hasn't shaken his detail before. Besides, he's still in the White House. What could happen?"

"Very little, to be sure." Marbury rose to his feet and shook the creases out of his trousers. "Nevertheless, I detected a considerable level of agitation among the agents before I came out here. Above and beyond what I might expect if the President had merely slipped away for a few minutes during a social event. They seemed positively harried."

"Leo's pretty frantic too," Donna said anxiously. "Not just annoyed - downright angry and anxious. And Ron as well. He was very sweet to me, but he was really serious about how important it was to find the President quickly."

Ziegler almost bit through what was left of his cigar. “Ron Butterfield was... sweet?" 

“That’s... spooky," CJ observed with a dramatic shiver.

“Whoa," was all Seaborn had to offer.

Marbury glanced quickly between their stunned faces and decided, quite sagely he thought, that one of the signs of the approaching apocalypse had come about.

"I saw Nancy McNally talking to Leo at one point," CJ said abruptly, still trying to wrap her inebriated mind around the concept of a _sweet_ Butterfield. "She didn't look very happy either. Situation Room, do you think?"

"No." Marbury shook his head. "Speaking as one who has witnessed more than his fair share of security measures, I'd say this is slightly more serious. The emphasis seems to be not only on locating the President, but actually securing him."

"He's right." Seaborn's manner had grown serious. "I noticed the activity when I was out walking. It's low-key, but pretty intense. I thought someone had hopped the fence at first, but I don’t think it's that. They usually have that kind of situation under control in minutes, and if not..." His voice trailed off and he shrugged helplessly, “Well then, there's nothing low-key about _any_ Secret Service activity. It's not that, but it is something."

"Like what?" CJ was becoming exasperated, and more than a little anxious. If this activity were noticed by any of the guests, she would be facing a rabid press corps before morning.  

Ziegler, who had been standing in a grimly contemplative silence, stirred. "I've just had an unpleasant thought," he said quietly. "Isn't the NTSB report due about now?"

"On Marine One? Yes, but..." Seaborn broke off and regarded his boss with disbelief.  "Oh, no. You can't be serious!"  When Ziegler made no move to disclaim, the younger man burst out passionately, "It isn't possible!"

"What?" Donna's alarm peaked as Marbury shook his head in dismay and CJ paled and sank down beside her on the steps.

Clearly distressed, Ziegler rubbed his forehead and then ran his hand across his beard. "The only reason I can think of for this kind of security is if the accident report... wasn't." At Donna's blank look he forced himself to put the unthinkable into words. "The crashing of Marine One may _not_ have been an accident."

Donna froze with shock. "You don't really believe that?" When Ziegler shrugged helplessly, she appealed to the others. "That can't be it! That would mean that someone was trying to..." She trailed off.  

It was at that point Donnatella Moss got sober _real_ quick."And I've lost the President!" she wailed.

Everybody, including Marbury, winced at the sound.

"Don't worry, Donna, that's not the explanation." Seaborn's declaration was equal parts belief and an unwillingness to even entertain the dreadful possibility. "You'll see. It's probably just a crisis in the Situation Room, as CJ said. They'll have found the President by now and everything will be back to normal."

"I suppose we'll just have to wait until someone decides to brief us on what the exact problem is."  The Press Secretary rose to her feet reluctantly. Her mission now, besides figuring out what to tell the press when the time came, was finding some coffee.

_Lots_ of coffee.

Ziegler scowled at the end of his cigar, which had perversely decided to go out. "We may never know exactly what. We’re none of us exactly in the loop."

"Josh is," Donna muttered gloomily.

"Like _that’s_ going to help us." CJ patted the woman sympathetically on the shoulder. Some things in life simply weren’t meant to be endured.

"Or we can try to find out."

Everybody turned to Marbury, equally stunned by his confident declaration.

The British ambassador beamed at his gaping companions. Springing to the top of the steps, he pivoted dramatically to face them. "I've always found that when you wish to discover the exact state of play it pays to go direct to the horse's mouth. Tell me, does anyone know where I can find Agent Butterfield?"

~ooOoo~

"What’s next?" The question was asked in a sweetly courteous yet somehow patronizing tone. There was a familiar challenge in it as well. "That all depends, Jethro. What’s my prize?"

"Abbey!" Startled, Bartlet jerked round in his seat. Both feet slipped off the back of the chair in front of him. One foot safely hit the floor with a loud thump. Not quite so lucky, his right ankle slipped into the gap between the chair backs. Twisted by his incautious action, half-healed muscles set about protesting violently.

Lurching forward and grabbing at his trapped leg, Bartlet sucked in his breath and couldn’t quite stifle a grunt of pain. Hell, at this point he felt more than entitled to a bit of vocal drama. He couldn’t help but sourly regard the whole farce as the perfect accompaniment to the truly lousy luck he’d had all evening.

"For Heaven’s sake,Jed!" Abbey hurried to his aid and firmly pushed him back into the chair before he could do any more damage. And she knew he would, too. Some things in life were a predetermined certainty. "Hold still!"

"Yes, ma’am," Bartlet acquiesced meekly through clenched teeth. Meek seemed a good attitude choice at this point. There was an odd glint in her eye and he couldn’t quite figure if his wife was in _‘doctor’_ mode or _‘slap my husband around and knock him silly’_ mode.

Carefully lifting his leg and ankle from between the gap, Abbey gently lowered it to the floor. Crouching down, she looked up into his face. His eyes were tightly closed and a muscle was twitching in his rigid jaw. One hand was convulsively clenching and unclenching as it lay on the affected limb. Concern and aggravation fought with the surge of overwhelming affection that engulfed her. The klutz had managed to do another number on his leg.

She laid her hand on his, trying to calm him. "Jed?"

He shook his head, unable to answer.

"Talk to me."

"Cramp," Bartlet barely managed to get it out.

Abbey couldn’t help the sigh of affectionate exasperation that escaped her lips. With sure hands, she began to massage his upper thigh, felt his muscles tense expectantly under her touch. What else could she have expected? He’d done it again, innocently finding his way out of the doghouse. 

"I swear to God, you do this on purpose," she muttered fondly, more than a bit of accusation in her tone. 

"Oh, yeah. Sure, why not? All part of my Machiavellian plan. Break a few bones, lose some blood, cripple myself," Bartlet responded, voice heavy with sarcasm. The cramp was receding, giving him some respite. Opening his eyes, a perverse twinge of guilt made him ask, "What do I get if I jump off a cliff?"

"You go splat." Abbey glared up at him. "And that’s not funny."

"It’s not?"

"Not even close."

"And I try so hard."

"Try harder." Given the surly mood he was clearly in, she knew that if given half a chance, he would. She could hear his uneven breathing beginning to settle and the powerful muscle under her hands relax. Finishing her ministrations, she accused a bit hotly, "I told you to stay off it as much as possible tonight, not play tag with your detail."

It didn’t take three decades of marriage to recognize the flicker of adolescent guilt she saw as he averted his eyes. Glancing up at the two men of her own detail hovering uneasily in the background, she shook her head and murmured softly, "Your timing sucks, Jed." So much for their quiet, stolen moment. No doubt, they’d already tattled to Butterfield, he in turn to McGarry, and when the irate Chief of Staff came running...

The resulting mental picture was not a pretty one.

Abbey scowled fiercely when her husband had the audacity to laugh. "It’s not funny!" She slapped at his arm. "Why am I not surprised you didn’t listen to me?"

"Do I ever listen?" A wry smile twisted his lips at her protest and the halfhearted wallop. It hadn’t been up to her usual standards, but it was a start. Leaning his head back, he closed his eyes and tentatively asked, "Why do you even bother?"

"An over developed sense of responsibility, I suppose." The question troubled her deeply. This despondency was so unlike him. She studied his face, the exhaustion clearly painted in tense lines across his features. The accident, the India trip, and then China; he was only human. And as much as he would deny it, he had his limits. "When was the last time you sat down and relaxed?"

Bartlet snorted derisively. "Super Tuesday."

"Funny."

"Really?"

"No." Abbey shook her head at the childish disappointment in his voice. And he was trying so hard. Gesturing to her two chaperones, she told him gently, "We need to get you to bed."

"We?" Bartlet opened his eyes and tilted his head back. Seeing her shadows approaching, albeit somewhat cautiously, he scowled darkly. "Oh, yeah. _We_." A stubborn look set on his face and he muttered petulantly, "I’m not going to bed."

"Yes, you are."

"Are _we_ gonna make me?"

"Are you up for a fight?"

"Ahhh. And there it is. The sound byte and magic word. _Fight_." Leaning forward, he turned in his chair and stopped both men in their tracks with a cold, hard eyed stare. Satisfied they had got the first part of his message, he gave them the second part and commanded softly, "Get out."

Unsure and brought to a totally unexpected crossroads, the two men exchanged uneasy glances. Bartlet could see them mentally reviewing their operations manual. Shuffling his feet, one man began to lift his hand, clearly intent on getting a higher ruling.

"No, no. Don’t do that," Bartlet stopped him, smiling benignly like he was dealing with a temperamental child. Two of them, in fact. "Don’t check with Butterfield, don’t look at each other. Look at me. I’m making the rather broad assumption here that you know who I am?"

In stunned unison, both men nodded.

"Very good, boys. I had begun to wonder. Now, I will repeat this only once, so listen carefully and take whatever notes you feel necessary." His velvet tones, edged with steel, rose in volume and he roared, "Get out!"

Watching them trip over themselves in their haste to escape, the President of the United States couldn’t help but feel a touch of vindictive satisfaction. They may have only been doing their jobs, but he’d just got a bit of his own back and it felt good.

"There," he said, turning to his wife and giving her a supremely smug look. " _We_ are gone. Fight's over before it’s even begun."

"You’re a bully, Jed."

"I’m the President."

"Do you think I actually need to be reminded?" There was acid in her voice for a moment. Then Abbey looked at him again, seeing the exhaustion both mental and physical. Now was not the time. She softened her voice. "You need to rest."

"Practicing medicine without a license?" It was out of his mouth before he could stop it. Wincing, he muttered, "Shit."

"Nice one, jackass."

One corner of his mouth twisted upwards, hinting at a bit of self-mockery. "At least I’m a jackass again."

Abbey smiled sadly in return, alarmed though by the weary melancholy she heard in his voice. It was so wrong. He was slipping away from her again. Reaching up, she brushed her hand across his cheek.  "Did you ever stop?" she asked lightly, trying to bring him back.

"I honestly can’t remember anymore." Capturing her hand, he pulled her to her feet. "Sit down, Abbey."

"Jed, this is not the time or the place," she protested, resisting his pull. She wanted so much to talk to him, but was suddenly afraid. For the first time, she couldn’t place his mood, where he was coming from. She knew what she wanted from him, what she wanted to hear. It was the cost that now worried her.

And he looked so very tired. "Your timing, as always, leaves a great deal to be desired."

"So what else is new?" He pulled her roughly into the chair next to him, remotely satisfied at the shocked look on her face his uncharacteristic action caused. "I’ve been waiting for the right time. _We’ve_ been waiting. Hell, the entire White House has been waiting for the right time." He smiled sadly at the irony and continued with heavy sarcasm, "The _White House._ That should have been our first clue. It’ll never come. There’ll never be a right time and we haven’t exactly been subtle choosing what few battlegrounds we’ve been allowed."

"You can’t have a good fight with an audience." It was an ugly truth, but a grim truth nevertheless. The price paid for public service and, as much as she hated to admit it, nobody’s fault. Thinking about what happened upstairs with the girls, Abbey further acknowledged a bit guiltily,  "And some of us have been less subtle than others."

"They noticed."

"You think?"

"Not lately."

"Now _there’s_ a sound byte," Abbey snapped, finding that a small spark of her anger remained. _He_ had brought them to this state. _Thinking_ and _listening_ were two things he hadn’t been doing well of late. She tried to pull her hand away, but he wouldn’t let her. "When exactly did _that_ epiphany occur to you?"

"Abbey, don’t. My words this time, please?" Bartlet tightened his hold on her hand. She was about to go over the edge and he didn’t want that. Not that he didn’t deserve a good tongue lashing, but he needed her listening, not ranting. "I don’t want to fight. God knows I don’t deserve it, but right now, here at this moment, I would very much like to be a little closer to Heaven. Is that too much to ask?"

"Heaven?" Abbey whispered, realizing that his last plea had not been to her, but to the one person who always listened. He _never_ begged the Divine.This had gone too far. "Jed..."

"Are you still mad at me?"

Only the truth now. Abbey nodded. "Yes."

"Good."

"Good?"

"Proof of my consistency. I’m nothing if not reliably myopic."

Abbey rolled her eyes. "Little words, Jed."

"I like big words." He laughed at her reaction. An exasperated Abbey was a far more delightful prospect than an angry one. On safer ground, he paused for a moment, then continued slowly, searching for the one thing that had eluded him for so long. "That’s my problem. I keep looking for the big words when little ones would so easily serve. _One_ little word in particular." Bartlet lowered his voice, almost afraid to ask, " _Why_ , Abbey? Why did you do it?"

"It was my choice." She wasn’t expecting this, had come prepared to drag him kicking and screaming into the verbal arena. It left her feeling vulnerable and she didn’t like it. Abbey saw his face crumple at that answer and was forced to admit she was doing what she’d been so long accusing him of. Taking the easy way out.

It wasn’t fair to either of them, not now when they had come so far. "No, that was too easy. You deserve better."

Bartlet laughed ruefully. "I do?"

"Sometimes." Abbey realized then that a line had been crossed, both for her and for him. Comfortable now, she teased, "A reward for your dogged consistency."

He laughed outright at that. It was a wonderful sound, rich and free; too long missing from her world. His arm slipped around the back of her chair, coming down lightly to pull her closer. Released from anger and recrimination, Abbey leaned into his embrace. Feeling him relax, she repeated his question, " _Why_ , Jed?"

"It’s a little word."

"Because I was proud of you," she said hesitantly, dropping her chin to his chest, listening to his heartbeat. The strong beat gave her the courage to continue. "Because when all is said and done, it _was_ my choice. It always has been. Nothing I do or say is going to change that, and I wouldn’t want it to."

Bartlet brought his other arm around to encircle her, drawing her closer. "No?" he whispered into her hair. He’d been afraid to ask that question. Now he found himself dreading the answer.

This time Abbey’s wallop had a bit more force behind it. Pounding his chest, she berated him, "You’re a complete idiot if you thought I would."

"Hmmm." Relaxing further, conscious of a sense of place and satisfaction he’d long been missing, Bartlet observed dryly, "My polls are improving. I’ve been downgraded from _jackass_ to _idiot_."

_"My_ idiot."

Blinking, surprised at the fierceness of her tone, he asked somewhat incredulously, "That’s something to be proud of?"

"Don’t you ever doubt it." But he did. She could hear it in his voice. Her husband was still waiting, still wanting more. " _Why_ isn’t such a little word, Jed. There’s a lifetime of answers."

"Or a lifetime of excuses."

"Excuses?" Abbey smiled at that. She couldn’t help it. Marbury had been right. She was as human as the next person. He’d left himself wide open. Slyly and without rancor she said, _"I love you very much."_

Abbey felt him stiffen, attempt to pull away and for a moment she felt she’d gone too far. Words could be weapons and she hadn’t meant those particular words to leave him cut and bleeding. She wrapped her arms around him tighter, holding him close. He wasn’t going to get away, not this time.

Bartlet was silent for a long while, then asked quietly, fearfully, "Is that enough?"

"It was enough..." She reached up and framed his face with gentle, loving hands. "...that thirty-four years ago I said _yes_."

"For better or for worse?" He said the words tentatively, as if testing the very idea that he could have been worth the effort.

"Never for worse."

His searching gaze met hers and his heart turned over. His breath caught in his throat. It was there, in her eyes. _Small words, Jed._ Small and simple. With that realization went the burden, and the guilt. 

Hand behind her head, Bartlet pulled her closer. She didn’t resist. Unsure, he pressed his lips to hers, caressing rather than demanding. The moment was brief, but telling. Drawing back, he brushed his thumb across her cheek, capturing the single, precious tear that had fallen. It wasn’t the first, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last. Of that, he knew his consistency was assured.

There was only one last thing left to do.

"Abbey?"

"Yes?"

"Thank you."

Abbey didn’t know how long she’d been waiting for those simple words. Months? Years? It no longer mattered. He’d said them, and she hadn’t had to pry them out of him with a surgeon’s skill. Not only had he said them, but he’d meant them. Heart and soul, she could see it in his eyes.

Her husband was watching her intently, waiting. Abbey almost laughed. There he was again; the rumpled black tux, bow tie askew, blue eyes troubled and unsure. The _little boy lost_ was back again. How could she resist him?

Why bother even trying? Besides, he deserved a suitable reward for improving his communication skills.

As though his words had released her, which in truth they had, Abbey buried herself deeper into his embrace. She could feel his breath; felt the warmth of it on her cheek as he held her closer. Slipping her arms beneath his jacket and around his back, she turned her face to his.

Capturing his mouth, she kissed him; long and slow, challenging him with every movement. The man didn’t disappoint her. He never did, at least not for long.

Dimly, somewhere in the back of her mind, it occurred to Abbey that they might have an audience. The thought was a brief one, driven out by the feel of his hands moving gently down her back, eagerly accepting her invitation. 

_Let them watch._

She and her husband had earned this.

~ooOoo~

"Agent Butterfield!"

The agent in question nearly groaned aloud as the elegantly tipsy voice boomed exuberantly across the crowded ballroom. Spying the British ambassador weaving his way across the floor, Butterfield braced himself. Of all the people he wanted to see or find tonight, Lord John Marbury was _not_ one of them. 

A few nearby guests turned to give the agent openly curious stares. He made the half-hearted effort to smile reassuringly in return. From their startled reactions and the scurrying as they hastily retreated to a much safer distance, Butterfield concluded that baring your teeth in an angry grimace bore little resemblance to the non-threatening social variety.

"Agent Butterfield!" Marbury neglected to reduce his volume as he drew to a halt, full glass in hand and beaming with happy inquiry at the stoic agent. "Just the man I wanted to see. May I call you Ron?"

"No, you may not."

"Indeed." One eyebrow rose gracefully at the flatly delivered denial, but Marbury refused to be daunted. "How disappointing. Then perhaps you can help me. I seem to have misplaced Abbey."

His carefully constructed facade cracked and Butterfield’s only response was to wince at the word _misplaced._ Listening to the disappointing chatter coming over his earpiece, he decided the next meeting of the team leaders was going to include a _very_ precise lecture on how to keep your eyes open.

The other eyebrow rose to join its twin at the agent’s telling reaction and Marbury murmured, "Interesting." Glancing around the ballroom, carefully noting what so many had clearly missed and taking a healthy swallow of the truly superior scotch, he declared casually, "He seems to be keeping you busy tonight."

Eyes narrowing suspiciously, Butterfield inquired coolly, " _He_ , Mr. Ambassador?"

"Generally speaking of course. I can well imagine you’re always _busy_ , as it were."

Raising his hand to adjust his earpiece, Butterfield solemnly inclined his head and quietly acknowledged the vacuously given point. With no encouraging reports coming in, _busy_ was an understatement. The man had absolutely _no_ idea.

"And?" Marbury insisted.

Drawing a deep breath, Butterfield began to recite, "The Secret Service does not..."

"Yes, yes," Marbury interrupted with an effortless smile, airily waving his hand at the standard response. Truthfully, he’d expected no less. Still, even the agent’s ambiguous reply provided some little satisfaction. "About Mrs. Bartlet..."

"No," Butterfield stated firmly, baring his teeth again and surreptitiously glancing around for an escape route. "The Secret Service is also not a paging service. Our protectees deserve their privacy."

"My assurances that I have no intention of invading the First Lady’s privacy," Marbury pledged with easy grace, completely oblivious to the curiously predatory grimace fixed on Butterfield’s face. "I had been having a rather lovely conversation with her earlier and merely wanted to conclude it on a somewhat more... encouraging note. Can you help?"

_Encouraging_ this man in any endeavor was not very high on Butterfield’s priority list. "No," he repeated, injecting a hint of warning into his voice.

Marbury’s face fell. "No?"

"No."

"Pity."

"My apologies, sir," Butterfield replied blandly. It never hurt to at least _try_ and be polite.

"Really?" Marbury asked dubiously. He’d finally noticed the somewhat constricted expression on the agent’s face, the focused gleam in his eyes as he listened to his transceiver. Honesty forced him to admit the man looked like he wanted to bite somebody.

For safety’s sake, Marbury took a cautious half-step backwards. 

Butterfield didn’t miss the action and his answering smile contained just a hint of vindictive pleasure. "Of course."

Heroically downing the rest of the scotch, Marbury bravely, admittedly somewhat foolishly, pressed onward, "Should I be lucky enough to locate the First Lady in this crush..." He let the rest of the sentence trail off, watching the agent expectantly. 

"Give her my regards," Butterfield muttered absently, listening to a report coming in. The lines of concentration deepened along his brow. One corner of his mouth twisted upwards with satisfaction. _Finally!_

Marbury noted the slight change in the agent’s demeanor. "And should you locate her first?" he asked, satisfied that his conclusions were accurate. A lifetime of diplomatic service did provide one with certain observational skills.

"I’ll pass on your message," Butterfield replied, forcing his features into what he hoped was a sincere expression of impatient yet polite dismissal. According the latest chatter, one team _had_ found the President. This whole ridiculous mess was about to be put to rest. "If you’ll excuse me, Mr. Ambassador?"

"My apologies." Marbury bowed gracefully, mouth curving into a knowing smile. "I’ve kept you from your duties."

"Not at all." He was surprised at how easily that came out through clenched teeth.

"Diplomacy?"

Butterfield shuddered. "God, I hope not."

"Good luck with tonight’s endeavors, Agent Butterfield," Marbury offered gravely, all trace of humor and absentminded frivolity gone from his voice. "All of them."

About to leave, Butterfield stopped in midstride and abruptly turned back to face the ambassador. There was yet a faint glint of mischievous humor in the man’s eyes, but now combined with a shrewd gleam no amount of alcohol or ingenuous play-acting could disguise.

For the first time, Ron Butterfield realized what a formidable opponent this man could be. "And you with yours, Mr. Ambassador."

"Me?" Marbury waved him off with a giddy laugh. "Off with you! What possible plans could I have other than to enjoy this...amusingly entertaining assemblage of ne’er-do-wells and vain hangers-on?"

Butterfield couldn’t have put it better himself. "No doubt you’ll let me know, should the occasion arise."

Marbury inclined his head. "No doubt."

The British Ambassador watched Butterfield leave, grabbing one of the wandering floor agents by the startled man’s elbow on his way out. Letting his gaze drift aimlessly around the ballroom, noting the gaiety and joy still ringing through the milling crowds, Marbury’s expressive face stilled and grew somber. The happy fools had absolutely no idea of the events taking place around them. Why should they? Their lives weren’t affected in any way, so why worry?

Eat, drink and be merry. The world will find its own way.

It wasn’t a very gracious thought, hardly _diplomatic,_ but then he wasn’t feeling very diplomatic at the moment. Were this his house, they’d all be out on their asses right now. 

"Good luck, Josiah," he muttered, staring sadly into his glass.

It was empty again.

"Mr. President," Marbury sighed heavily, making his determined way back towards the bar. "Your timing does indeed suck."

~ooOoo~

Sure of himself and his place in the universe, Ron Butterfield pounded down the corridor towards the pressroom. Considering how his luck had gone so far this evening, he couldn’t quite believe it.

_Damn! They’d found him!_

There were no guests in this part of the Wing, but a few members of the late night cleaning crew jumped in astonishment and flattened themselves against the walls as he raced by, three other agents struggling gamely to keep up with their boss’s long-legged run. Seeing the Chief of Security in such an uncharacteristic state of emotional uproar was well worth a few colorful exclamations and unashamedly open-mouthed wonder. 

Not that there was _ever_ truly a lack of it, but gossip and speculating about the _whys_ for this little show was going to keep everyone entertained for weeks.

Scowling, Butterfield felt their curious stares and realized he was going to be doing a lot of explaining tomorrow. Probably for a _much_ longer time to come. One night of mistakes was going to keep the White House rumor mill running on more than fumes for an interminable decade or two. Oddly enough, that didn’t concern him at the moment; although he knew it was going to drive his blood pressure through the roof before it had all run its course. Only one thing concerned him at this particular moment.

_They’d found him!_

Not that he _ever_ thought he’d be using that phrase when applied to the President of the United States and the man he was _supposed_ to be keeping out of harm's way. The logical comeback to the phrase was _‘How’d you lose him in the first place?’_ A question he had no satisfactory answer to. 

Three presidents. Butterfield had served under _three_ sitting presidents and this man, this _economist_ , was the first one who seemed to take a devilish delight in going out of his way to make his chief bodyguard’s life more interesting.

_Interesting_ being of course one of the most glaring understatements he’d ever contemplated. 

_They’d found him!_

Having found him, Butterfield wasn’t exactly sure what they were going to do with him once they had him safely in hand. One didn’t exactly lecture the leader of the free world like a recalcitrant child, but he was sure as hell tempted. Right now, that temptation was very close to winning the battle with his hard-fought common sense.

The two men he’d assigned to the First Lady’s detail looked up, boundless relief at his approach settling across their features like a heavy shroud. It was a very bad sign. Butterfield drew to an abrupt halt, the three men trailing in his wake almost plowing into his back. His own relief had instantly turned to suspicion.

_What were they doing outside the pressroom if he was inside?_   A silly question, but Butterfield had the sinking feeling it was only the beginning.

Pausing for a deep breath and a moment to fight for his self-control, Butterfield demanded with a hooded glare for each man, "Where is he? Torres?"

Having lost his claim to safety and anonymity, Emil Torres, eleven year veteran of the FBI, treasury agent for three and now lead agent for the First Lady’s detail, swallowed and stepped forward. "Eagle is inside, sir."

"Inside?"

"Yes, sir."

"Why are you outside?"

The Secret Service prided itself on a long tradition of being succinct, straightforward and economical to the extreme with words. Torres was no exception. "Eagle ordered us to, sir."

"Eagle," Butterfield ripped the words out, fixing each man in turn with an incredulous, yet still dangerous, frown, "ordered you?"

"Yes, sir." Simple answers. Torres was rather proud of himself.

Torres' partner nodded his agreement, perhaps a bit too quickly and eagerly. He nearly cringed when Butterfield turned his angry gaze in his direction. He hadn’t meant to draw that kind of attention to himself. Clearing his throat, he looked away. Basic rule of survival was _never_ make eye contact with the predator. And right now his boss definitely fell into the ravenous hunter category.

The three agents who had followed Butterfield on his mad dash through the West Wing stepped back as quietly and unobtrusively as possible. This was not going to be pretty.

Butterfield squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose. He had a headache. Along with the ulcer, he now had a headache. "Since when do we disregard our duties at the _orders_ of the man we are supposed to protect?"

Torres winced. That hurt. "He yelled, sir."

Rolling his eyes heavenward, perhaps searching for _some_ divine intervention, Butterfield pointed out, "Lately, the man has _always_ been yelling. Where have you been?" Considering the strain he’d been under, Butterfield couldn’t help but admire the President’s restraint. Yelling was the least of what he _could_ be doing.

Praying for a bit of that same restraint, Butterfield listened to Torres begin his justifications. However the man phrased it, he was sure it would all still amount to poor excuses.

"No, sir. He didn’t just yell," Torres was saying, the lines of concentration deepening along his brow as he searched for the correct word. He couldn’t find it. Emphasis was all he could come up with. "Eagle _yelled_ , sir."

Butterfield stared at the man, momentarily at a loss for words, then snapped out, "I don’t care if he _yelled_ till he was blue in the face! You have a _job_! Consider yourself on report!"

Rapidly reaching the end of what little was left of his tether, Butterfield started to enter the pressroom.

A horrified look on his face, Torres stopped him. "Sir!"

"What!" Butterfield ground out; promising silently that the next meeting of the team leaders was going to be _extremely_ vocal and entertaining. "Agent Torres, you have some objection to my going in there?"

"You don’t want to go in there, sir."

The Chief of White House security’s mustache twitched and his brows rose. "Why?"

"His wife’s in there," Torres told him helpfully. It should have been enough.

It wasn’t. 

"I _had_ gathered that," Butterfield replied dryly. "You _are_ head of detail for the First Lady, after all."

Butterfield didn’t wait to hear any more excuses and angrily marched his way into the pressroom. It only took a second - he’d always been a quick study, it was a talent he was rather proud of - before he whipped around and left again in as quick a one-eighty as he’d ever pulled in his life.

Letting out a _very_ long breath and offering a fidgeting Torres an apologetic grimace, he said, "You were right, Agent Torres. I did _not_ want to go in there."

Torres fidgeted a bit more, then said, "Yes, sir. Sorry, sir. I tried to warn you."

"Yes, you did."

A little spark of hope leapt into Torres’ eyes. "The report, sir?"

"Forget it," Butterfield impatiently waved him off. "Eagle would have killed you."

A relieved breath gusted from his mouth and Torres nodded. "Either Eagle or the First Lady."

"Most likely the First Lady," Butterfield replied, smiling thinly and acknowledging the man’s point. Certain deaths weren’t worth the price paid to protocol. "You and your partner, take the other entrance. _Nobody_ gets in there. You," he jabbed an adamant finger at the closest member of the remaining pack, making him the leader, "Cover every other exit _and_ the observation window. Call in as many warm bodies as you need. Anyone wants to take a peek, shoot them."

Trying to figure out if he was serious or not, the men scrambled to obey. Considering his mood, nobody was taking any long bets. Explanations or excuses would come later. If anything, CJ Cregg could come up with a good story if they _did_ have to shoot someone.

She always managed to spin _something_ when needed. Flamingo was good at that sort of thing.

That left Butterfield alone, a situation he was not at all unhappy with. Alone was good. He could steam alone. Swear alone. Think the unthinkable alone. Contemplate his mortality alone. Alone, he could figure out what the _hell_ he was going to tell Leo McGarry when _he_ showed up.

Life couldn’t _possibly_ get much better than this, of that he was dourly certain.

Glancing at his watch, Butterfield counted down the seconds. The Chief of Staff should be showing up right about... "Now," he said with a bit of smug satisfaction. At least something was going right tonight.

Leo McGarry pounded around the corner, the NTSB report folder clutched in his hand and only slightly out of breath.

"Where’s Lyman?" Butterfield asked, noting the Deputy Chief of Staff’s absence.

"Ran into a door."

"That wouldn’t happen if he learned to open them."

"I hear Donna’s been trying to train him." McGarry glanced past the agent’s shoulder at the pressroom entrance. "Is he in there?"

"Yes."

McGarry waited, impatience evident in stance and expression. Butterfield continued to stand there, blocking the way with an unreadable look on his face. "Well?" the Chief of Staff demanded.

Blandly, giving no hints at all, Butterfield replied, "You do not want to go in there."

"Like hell I don’t!"

"Like hell you _won’t_ ," Butterfield emphasized the negative, his thin smile in _no_ way indicating compliance with McGarry’s charge.

Frowning fiercely, having reached the end of _his_ tether a long time ago, McGarry ignored the warning and attempted to shoulder his way past the towering agent, only to find himself grabbed by the scruff of his neck and unceremoniously hauled back. Lifted off his feet, all he could manage was a short grunt of surprise and an oddly poignant thought.

_‘So this is what it feels like.’_

Setting the Chief of Staff back on his feet, Butterfield benevolently straightened the man’s rumpled tux lapels and said again, a bit _more_ firmly, "You are _not_ going in there."

"No." McGarry attempted to recapture a bit of his lost dignity, brushing at a bit of invisible lint on his coat sleeve. "You’ve made your point. I am _not_ going in there. After all this, may I ask why?"

"His wife’s in there with him."

Realization dawned on McGarry’s face. "Ahhh."

Butterfield nodded. "Yep."

"In the pressroom?"

"Apparently."

"Great." McGarry impatiently surveyed the entrance to the pressroom, chewing on his bottom lip before asking, "How long do you figure?"

"As long as it takes," Butterfield replied evenly, following the Chief of Staff’s gaze and giving the entrance a narrow look of his own. "You know as well as I do that this has been too long in coming. The report can wait. It’s not going anywhere."

McGarry stiffened at those quietly delivered words, momentarily affronted at the agent’s audacity, then embarrassed. Those words should have been his. Never more so than now, he was all too aware of the stark line between his job and his lifelong friendship. For a brief, terrible moment, the job had been all. He’d forgotten what his friend had been through these last, long months. The personal sacrifice and heartache the man had been through. 

Some things were worth the sacrifice. But not this. Jed and Abbey deserved this moment, however brief. McGarry nodded. "It can wait."

The mean play would begin again soon enough.

Butterfield shrugged, uncomfortable with McGarry’s scrutiny and what he knew the man was thinking. The call wasn’t one even the Chief of White House Security had the right to make. Strict rules and even stricter training dictated that the President be secured immediately. No questions or excuses. Family and personal issues were _never_ part of the equation. He’d broken the rules.

Butterfield hardened his eyes and looked away.

McGarry saw the action, realized with a wry understanding what the man was trying to hide, the unfeeling facade he was struggling to maintain. He wasn’t fooled. He now knew Ron Butterfield better than that. The man had depths he couldn’t allow to surface. McGarry had seen through the cracks, though, but he didn’t say anything. Allowing Butterfield the disguise was no great problem and a small way of saying thank you.

McGarry stifled a smile. Any thanks and the man would only throw the words right back at the giver. It was his job, nothing more. He didn’t believe that anymore than Butterfield did. It would, however, remain their secret.

Stepping across the hallway, McGarry leaned up against the opposite wall, absently twitching the report in his fingers. There was nothing for it now but to wait. Glancing at his watch, he couldn’t help the low growl of irritation. 

Feeling Butterfield’s amused gaze, he turned a sour look on the agent and told him in no uncertain terms, "I want to hear no comments about timing."

"Would I dare?" The agent shrugged dismissively and replied coolly, "Personally, I’ve had enough of those tonight to last a lifetime."

"You were thinking it."

"A very little thought," Butterfield admitted with an equally little, tight smile twisting one corner of his mouth. McGarry was the only person he would allow himself to break that personally strict decorum for. Just a _tiny_ bit.

The agent’s head snapped round as the familiar sound of running footsteps echoed down the corridor. His smile, however small, disappeared and he muttered pointedly, "Speaking of _timing_."

McGarry’s sigh contained equal parts resignation and fond annoyance. There was only one person it could be. The young man was the best at his job, top of his field in fact. But he could be a trial at times. _‘Most of the time,’_ McGarry admitted silently with rueful affection.

And he would never change a thing, nor would he tell his deputy that. Aloud, he said, "Josh must have won his battle with the door."

"I’ll have to see about fixing that."

"Josh or the door?"

Butterfield never got the chance to answer.

"Leo!" The voice raced loudly down the corridor, bouncing off the walls and soon to be followed by its owner, who skidded to a nearly breathless halt in front of the Chief of Staff. "Is he in there?" Lyman gasped.

"Not for long if he heard you bellow like that," McGarry grumbled, giving the pressroom entrance an anxious look. He could think of better ways for the couple inside to get a wake-up call. "In fact, I think most of the West Wing heard you."

Professional facade back in place, Butterfield merely grunted his disapproval.

"Then what are we waiting for?" Lyman demanded, doing his best to ignore the glowering senior agent. It wasn’t easy. Intimidation was the man’s stock in trade and right now he was doing his level best to glare the Deputy Chief of Staff into submission.

"His wife is in there with him," McGarry told him patiently.

"So?"

McGarry sighed. He was going to have to have a long talk with Donna. This boy _needed_ to be educated. "Think, Josh. Please?"

This time Butterfield’s grunt sounded suspiciously like a laugh. Lyman glared at him, then turned a somewhat more thoughtful look to the pressroom entrance. Maybe he _had_ overindulged in the wine just a bit tonight. The answer eluded him for a few beats. Then it hit him.

"Uhhh, Mrs. Bartlet?" he asked cautiously. 

"Yes, Josh." McGarry nodded wisely, satisfied his deputy was on the right track. When it came to relationships, he’d learned the younger man was woefully ignorant of the more subtle aspects of family life.

"In the pressroom?"

He was a quick study too. McGarry nodded again.

"Whoa."

Rolling his eyes, McGarry couldn’t help but laugh at that guileless remark. The boy was a treasure, in more ways than one. "How the hell did you ever graduate high school?"

"Got lucky, I guess," Lyman admitted with a knowing smile, shoving his hands into his pockets. "How long do we wait?"

McGarry shook his head at the impatience of youth. "As long as we have to."

Unfortunately, waiting calmly was not something Joshua Lyman was very good at. Not when the news was as important as this. He didn’t have the patience yet to dampen the frustrated energy firing his nerves. 

Pacing, chafing at the interminable wait, only minutes passed before he gave both McGarry and Butterfield his ultimatum, "He needs to be told!"

The older men ignored him, McGarry simply shaking his head and Butterfield crossing his arms and scowling.

"What's taking so long?" Lyman fidgeted; apparently oblivious to the slightly incredulous look Butterfield shot at the Chief of Staff, who responded with yet another elaborate rolling of his eyes.  

"The First Couple have a lot to talk about." McGarry was rather proud of the admittedly somewhat strained patience of his reply. Mind you, if Josh had snickered at his accidental innuendo he was going to clip his ear, Deputy Chief of Staff or no. That restrained remnant of his composure was rapidly fading fast.

His colleague failed to recognize the warning signs. Patience wasn't exactly one of his strengths. Cracking at last, Lyman took two swift paces towards the entrance, as if intent on shouldering Butterfield aside and bursting through. 

He practically skid to a halt as Butterfield moved quietly and implacably into his path, staring down impassively at the younger man and seemingly about as moveable as the Rock of Gibraltar. Frustrated, Lyman whirled around and appealed to his boss. "Leo, we have to tell him! Now! Don't you understand? The implications…"

"Don't lecture me on the implications, Joshua!"  McGarry's façade cracked at last, and all the tension, stress and _fear_ came boiling up. "I understand them just fine! Quite apart from anything else, I was _there_. Remember? I know what this report,"he waved the manila folder in his hand like a damning flag, "means for us, for the country and for this administration." 

McGarry paused for breath, suddenly emotionally and physically exhausted. Quietly, sadly, he indicated the doorway and whispered, "For them."

_‘And for you_.’ Chastised, and a little guilty, Lyman completed the thought.  He knew how devoted Leo McGarry was to the President, how much their friendship - that sometimes almost seemed a symbiosis as they worked in tandem, whole conversations being conveyed by a glance or the tilt of a head - meant to both men.  

Josiah Bartlet was truly close to only a few people, and Leo McGarry occupied a privileged place in that select pantheon. These two men shared a history that predated the births of most of the President's senior staff. What would it be like to lose a friend of such old and close standing? Especially in such a way as this. Lyman devoutly hoped neither he nor McGarry would ever have to find out.

Ron Butterfield shot a brief, telling glance at the Chief of Staff. He knew what the other man was thinking. _‘Let them have this moment. There's been few enough lately, and they're going to need it.’_   The agent heaved an inward sigh. They certainly would, especially knowing what the future would bring.  

The scene he had caught a mercifully brief glimpse of had been both embarrassingly private and delightfully heart-warming. Normally, Butterfield never gave a thought to the personal lives of those he was sworn to protect. He couldn't afford to. But the Bartlets had breached his professional shell. He _cared_. Enough to ensure that they had at least a few moments respite before he once again shredded the cocoon of happiness they were trying so hard to restore.  

Hearing footsteps coming up behind him, he braced himself and turned. And almost swore.  This news would never have been easy to deliver, under any circumstances. But with both the President and his wife radiating that familiar glow of relaxation and contentment in each other's company that the entire White House had always observed - and missed in recent months - being the cause of shattering it seemed incredibly unfair. Could the timing have possibly been any worse? He didn't envy McGarry.

"Mr. President?" Lyman stepped forward with an air of mild alarm. "Are you all right, sir?"

"Fine, Josh **.** Just fine."  Bartlet waved him away casually. His bow tie was partly undone; his hair tousled and there was no mistaking the air of satisfaction he fairly exuded. Nonetheless, his eyes were slightly narrowed with strain and he was definitely favouring his right leg, trying not to lean on his wife for support, even as she rolled her eyes at his insouciance.  

"Yeah, Josh, everything's peachy."  Abbey firmly steered her husband towards the three men. "If you don’t count some stupid skulking around this evening that almost led to his being stuck with having to rest that leg for another week. **"**

Puzzled, she was almost distracted from her present mission by the sight of both McGarry and Butterfield wincing in guilty unison. One of these days she was going to get to the bottom of that almost Pavlovian reaction to any mention of Jed's recent injury. The mystery, however, could wait for another day. She didn’t want to be reminded about the accident and was determined that _this_ day would end on a happier note.  

"Jed, apologise to the nice agent for giving him the run-around this evening. Then we're getting you into bed. Not like that," she whacked her husband's arm as he gave her a broad grin. "You need to get some sleep, and to get off that leg."

McGarry cleared his throat. There would be no better time for this."Mr. President..."

"Not now, Leo." Abbey fixed her husband's old friend with her best quelling glare. It had been known to work on him in the past. From the stubborn set of his jaw, and what she could have sworn was honest grief at the intrusion in his eyes, she knew it wasn’t going to work this time. Still, she had to try. "Unless there's a major crisis, the President is going to get some much needed rest."

"Leo?" Bartlet was well attuned to McGarry's moods, and something told him the man's clear lack of relish for his role as messenger extended far beyond merely intruding into any possible _family time_.  "What's up?"

McGarry exchanged an agonised look with Lyman, then stepped forward and reluctantly extended the manila folder, one crumpled corner of which bore silent witness to a violently felt motion.

Bartlet gazed at it, then looked up to meet his friend's eyes. Regarding the other man steadily, he straightened his shoulders and stepped deliberately away from his wife’s side. Slowly, he extended his hand and took the folder. His mouth tightened into a hard line as he saw the title and he flipped the file open with stiff, jerky motions.

Abbey's objections, both to his leaving her side and the untimely interruption, died in her throat as she felt the disquiet and apprehension radiating from her companions as they watched the President slowly leaf through the report. She looked questioningly at McGarry, but he was unable to meet her gaze, his features set in lines of misery. Lyman was positively flustered and Butterfield looked both angry and regretful. She turned towards her husband.

Leaning one shoulder against the wall for support,Jed had been gently kneading his bad leg while reading, but the action finally slowed, then stopped as the fingers of the hand holding the report tightened convulsively, creasing the paper trapped between them.  His expression was darkening in anger, and something else Abbey couldn’t quite place. She knew every line of her husband’s expressive face, his highs and lows. The emotions passed so quickly, leading one to the next so quickly, she was left to guess.

Was that sorrow, grief, possibly even guilt? She was sure she recognized that last emotion; it was one he seemed to have worn a lot in recent days and hours. She had hoped to see the last of it. Candidly, she had to admit she should have known better.

Seeking enlightenment, she craned her neck slightly in an effort to see and caught the bold lettering _NTSB_ on the front of the folder. It had finally come. A small sliver of ice seemed to work its unexpected way down her spine, and she drew closer to her husband.

Bartlet could barely make out the words through the maelstrom of emotions that seemed to cloud his vision. One phrase did cut through the mental fog with brutal clarity.  _Not an accident_.  Not an accident.  Murder. Oh, you could argue that technically it was a murder _attempt_ ; after all, the chief target had escaped. That was what mattered as far as the world was concerned.

The hell it was! Righteous anger, colored by guilt, surged to the forefront of Bartlet’s mind. As if it didn't matter that five young men had died, another good man had been slightly injured, and his oldest friend put at risk. Five people were dead. He kept coming back to that, as if the numbers would lend the harsh reality a colder, more manageable cast and give meaning to his anger. Two of them had been married. One had a young child. All dead. And why? They were killed simply because they were considered insignificant by someone seeking a bigger goal, _his_ death. The President’s death, because ending _that_ man’s life was considered a sufficiently worthwhile goal to make some _collateral_ damage seem unimportant.

Bartlet squeezed his eyes shut as the memories once again rose up and submerged him.  His right hand clutched at the material of his trousers where they concealed the injury.  A brief, violent shiver ripped through his body at the recollection of cold, pain and that hideous feeling of being closed in, of those dreadful moments on first waking to total darkness and finding himself unable to move, to _breathe_. Even with closed eyes he recognized the gentle touch to his elbow. Abbey, concerned, was letting him know he wasn't alone.

But he hadn't been alone in that darkness either. It would have been almost preferable if he had. He felt his fingers flex unconsciously at the memory. Agent Donny Sandler had fulfilled the ultimate duty of a presidential bodyguard, and had paid the ultimate price.  He left behind a wife and a two-year old daughter. He had shown the President her photograph once during a long flight, proud as only a young father could be.  

She would never really know her father now, because his life had been considered less important than that of the man occupying the Oval Office, considered so by the world, the Secret Service, the perpetrator of that disaster and by her father himself. By everyone in fact but the man whom he had sworn to protect. Bartlet wondered if anyone who had not had another sacrifice their life for them could even begin to understand the crushing weight of responsibility the act bequeathed.  

His fingers flexed again as the memories rushed him onwards. It had been impossible for him to do anything to help the young agent. Buried under the debris, he had barely been able to stretch his hand far enough to touch the other's head. That had been enough.  Bartlet shuddered and involuntarily rubbed the fingertips of his right hand vigorously against the material of his trouser, feeling the scar he would carry for the rest of his life underneath.

As a cruel reminder, it would never leave him.

Several times since the accident, nightmare recollections had found him standing in pajamas and barefoot in his bathroom, violently scrubbing at the flesh and fingers of that hand; a frantic effort to wash away the feeling of blood and… other things that had encrusted themselves under his nails.  In an effort to banish the sensation - still so fresh to the memory he could practically feel it now - he instinctively stretched that hand out, reaching for the one thing that could always anchor him, call him back from the dark places his thoughts carried him to.

Abbey took his hand and curled her fingers around his gratefully.  Right now, she badly needed the reassurance of the contact as much as he did, to feel his flesh warm under hers, to know that he was here with her and safe. To be reassured that he would continue to stay that way. But she knew that there was no such reassurance. That had been lost almost ten years ago.  In a way, this was just one more threat, one she couldn’t recognize or fight. 

She didn't want to lose him. She never had; that had partly been the cause of all the tension between them since the whole re-election issue had been broached. But she particularly didn't want to lose him _now_. Not now when they had finally been able to set the worst of the hurt and the anger aside, to see how the other had felt.

This evening had been painful in so many ways, but cathartic too. And the note of reconciliation they had managed to achieve had meant so much. Abbey knew their marriage was rightly famous for its impressive arguments, but it was an abidingly close one.  So close it both thrilled and frightened her. The existence of the recent emotional wedge had eaten away at both of them, and its final erosion had caused her to feel as if an invisible but almost crippling burden had at last been lifted from her. She knew Jed had felt the same.  

_It was so unfair!_ After all that had happened, didn’t they deserve to have the evening end as they had hoped for only moments before? Not for this newfound contentment to be shattered, and especially not in such a fashion as this.   

Her husband was entertaining similar thoughts. Abbey didn’t have to look into his eyes to know. She could feel the emotion in his hand, traveling through their touch into her. She took it in, held on to it and shared the new burden.

She wasn’t about to let go, ever.

Clutching her hand gently, carefully, like the lifeline it currently was, Bartlet finally looked up to meet the anxious regard of his Chief of Staff. He took a deep, steadying breath and delivered the only verdict he could in the circumstances. "Leo?"

"Yes, Mr. President?"

"Your timing sucks."


End file.
